by Alex Archer
"That's cruel," Doug said.
The elevator doors opened and Annja entered. She hoped she'd lose the phone signal, but she didn't. "You had first dibs on sending me to West Africa," she stated.
"West Africa is big," Doug said. "Where are you going in West Africa?"
"You're not thinking of sending Kristie there." Annja wanted to scream because she knew that was exactly what Doug Morrell would be thinking.
"Hey, there's a story here," Doug insisted.
"No monsters."
"It's Africa. There's gotta be zombies."
"I thought you said zombie stories are out with the show."
"We got zombies and an ancient treasure map in this," Doug said. "That's really cool."
The elevator opened and Annja stepped out into the lobby. McIntosh stood near the checkout desk with four men in plainclothes. They looked like an NFL offensive line.
"Annja, you gotta let me in on this," Doug whined. "You're all over the news. CNN. Fox News. MSNBC. I've even heard Larry King is trying to get hold of you."
"Larry King?" That stopped Annja for a moment. She liked watching Larry King, but she couldn't ever imagine meeting the man, much less being interviewed by him.
"That's what I was told. You're major news right now."
Those were the magic words. Right now. Annja knew several archaeologists who had enjoyed momentary fame during unusual finds or when some popular legend or myth caught the attention of the public. It never lasted.
"You can't buy this kind of advertising," Doug said.
Annja knew that, but she was thankful for it, too. She liked living her life out from under the microscope. Obscurity was a good thing. She didn't care for the limelight despite the pieces she did for Chasing History's Monsters. Those were a means to an end, and she felt they gave her the opportunity to at least teach a little about what she knew and loved.
"Did you hear me?" Doug asked.
"I did." Annja walked to the checkout desk.
"I already took care of the paperwork," McIntosh said, taking her suitcase and handing it to one of his agents. "We're ready to roll. Finish your call."
"I don't think you're seeing the opportunity that you have here," Doug said. "This is freaking huge."
"Is that the television producer?" McIntosh asked.
Annja nodded.
"Let me have the phone." McIntosh radiated impatience. He held out his hand.
Pushing aside the immediate resentment she felt, Annja handed over the phone.
"Doug Morrell," McIntosh said in a voice that crackled with authority. "This is Special Agent McIntosh of Homeland Security. This conversation is over." He shut the cell phone and handed it back to Annja. "Let's go. We're going to have to hurry if we're going to make the flight out of Atlanta to Paris."
Annja was about to put the phone away when it rang. McIntosh shot her an irritated look. She answered the phone because of the look more than anything else. She wanted the relationship with McIntosh clarified. I'm here because I want to be.
"Hello."
"Is that guy really a special agent from Homeland Security?" Doug asked.
"Yes."
"Man, that is so awesome! Annja, seriously, you can't just shut me – "
Annja ended the call and turned the phone off.
McIntosh took the lead. As soon as they walked through the hotel's front door, they stepped out into a crowd of reporters. Annja stopped for just a moment, staring out in disbelief.
Hallinger stepped up beside her. "McIntosh kept the media out of the hotel," he said.
Voices filled the immediate area as television reporters began their spiels. A phalanx of Kirktown police parted the crowd. McIntosh took Annja by the elbow and led her to the second dark sedan in a five-car convoy of similar vehicles.
"Is it true you're going to find a lost treasure?" a female reporter asked.
"No comment," Annja answered automatically. You've been watching too many movies, she told herself.
McIntosh stopped for just a moment and turned toward the reporter. "Where did you get that information?"
The reporter immediately responded with another question. "What are you going to do with the treasure when you find it?"
"No comment," McIntosh responded.
Annja slid a pair of sunglasses from her backpack and looked at McIntosh. What are you up to? she wondered.
One of the special agents opened the car door and McIntosh folded her inside, sliding in to join her. She was sandwiched between McIntosh and another Homeland Security agent. Hallinger was put into the front passenger seat. The reporters and other members of the crowd pressed in against the windows.
Annja placed her backpack on the floorboard between her feet. She unzipped one of the pockets, took out a sheet of paper and handed it to McIntosh.
"What's this?" McIntosh asked.
"A list of books I'm going to need."
"Books?"
"Reference books. History books. Maps."
"Is this going to be expensive?"
"Probably. Most of those are textbooks. They're not cheap. I already have most of them in my loft, but you'll have to have someone purchase those for us along the way."
Hallinger reached into his pocket and came out with a folded piece of paper. "I made a list, too."
Reluctantly, McIntosh took the professor's list, as well.
"If there are any duplicates," Hallinger said, "just cross them off."
"Actually, make sure we get two of each," Annja said. "It would be better if we had our own books to search through."
"Well," Hallinger said, "that is true. What with notes and possibly needing to consult the same book at the same time."
"Didn't you learn anything while you were getting your degrees?" McIntosh asked.
"Archaeology isn't like law enforcement," Annja said pointedly. "We don't get an updated list every day of who the bad guys are and what steps to take when we find them. There are thousands of years of human habitation to learn about, and millions of years before that. A lot of archaeologists specialize. But some of us, like Professor Hallinger and myself, understand that archaeology and the study of civilization is a lifelong pursuit. Even your doctor hands you off to a specialist when things get to be unfamiliar. That specialist is just like us. He or she will open a book, get on the Internet or call a colleague to get more information."
McIntosh held up his hands. "Point taken." He handed the lists to the agent on the other side of Annja. "Call it in."
The agent made the call, told whomever he was talking to that the books needed to be delivered to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris and started reading off the book titles.
Annja focused on McIntosh. "Do you want to tell us now why Homeland Security has agreed to fly us to West Africa?"
McIntosh grinned at her. "For the treasure hunt, of course."
Annja just looked at him.
"I thought a little humor might help," McIntosh said.
"Two security guards died last night," Annja said. "I'm not in the mood for humor."
McIntosh sobered.
Despite his devil-may-care attitude, Annja could see that he was tired, too.
"Actually," McIntosh said in a more subdued tone, "you're going to be bait."
****
"Gani Abiola, the guy from last night that you came to know as Icepick," McIntosh said, "is the nephew of Tafari."
"The West African warlord you mentioned," Hallinger said.
Annja sat at the table in the small security room McIntosh had arranged at the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. She picked at the breakfast tray the security personnel had delivered right after they'd arrived.
"Right," McIntosh agreed. "Tafari has become a person of interest to Homeland Security."
"You mentioned that he had ties to al-Qaeda," Annja said. "That he'd provided training camps for them."
McIntosh nodded and tapped a button on the notebook computer that had been delivered with the mea
l. Someone had put together the file he was now using. "The department has reason to believe that Tafari's exposure to al-Qaeda goes deeper than that."
Pictures scrolled across the computer screen. Several of them showed scenes in the African savanna lands, filled with short trees and scruffy brush. They were obviously surveillance shots taken with long-range lenses.
"Intelligence suggests that Tafari has been part of a biological-weapons research effort on behalf of al-Qaeda," McIntosh went on.
"What makes them think that?" Annja asked.
"That's classified information, Ms. Creed."
"You said we're being used as bait."
"To draw Tafari out. Not al-Qaeda."
"And if we just happen across a biological-weapons research center while we're out in the bush?" Annja asked.
McIntosh shook his head and looked very confident. "You won't be anywhere near al-Qaeda."
"You can guarantee that?" Hallinger asked.
"I feel very confident about that," McIntosh replied.
"That's reassuring," Annja said.
"Look," McIntosh said, "I understand the sarcasm. I really do. Personally, I didn't want to put you people in the field." His eyes turned harder. "You're civilians. You're not trained for this. If I was in charge of this expedition, neither one of you would be going. We've got other people that we have access to that have some training. Enough to save themselves." He looked at Hallinger. "You've got no experience at all when it comes to this."
"I'm not going to argue with you," the professor responded.
"And you." McIntosh looked at Annja and took a deep breath.
Annja returned his challenging gaze full measure.
"You tackle guys in the path of oncoming cars," McIntosh grated. "Not exactly the brightest thing I've ever seen. There's a certain lack of subtlety in something like that."
Annja resisted the impulse to fire a rejoinder.
"Whether you go with us or without us," McIntosh said, "you know that Tafari is interested in that Spider Stone you found. Going over there by yourselves – if you could find someone to pick up the tab – isn't a good idea, either. No matter what you do, you're going to be dealing with him. You're better off letting us deal with him. That's what we're trained to do."
Silence hung in the room for a moment.
"You know," Hallinger said quietly, "Special Agent McIntosh has a valid point."
Reluctantly, Annja agreed.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Enter," McIntosh said.
One of the agents posted outside opened the door and stepped inside. He held up a hand. "Five minutes until we board."
McIntosh nodded.
The agent stepped back into the hall.
"Okay," McIntosh said, looking back at Annja and Hallinger, "it's show time. Are you in or out?"
****
Annja woke on the plane. It was dark. For a moment she didn't remember where she was and she knew she was very tired. She traveled a lot, but there was something about flying at night that she found unnerving. A heavy book rested on her lap, and she shifted it to a more comfortable position.
"I could put it in the overhead compartment."
McIntosh sat on her left. He held out a hand.
Annja memorized the page number and passed the book over to him. He stood long enough to put the book away.
"Pillow or blanket?" he asked.
"No. Thanks."
McIntosh dropped into his seat. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
"Looked like you were sleeping okay."
"I shouldn't have slept," Annja said. "There's a lot I should be doing."
"You're tired." McIntosh shifted in his seat until he was comfortable. "When you're tired, you're supposed to sleep."
"I slept a little in Paris." They'd had an eight-hour layover in the City of Lights. Everything was hurry-up-and-wait.
While they were in Paris, Annja had thought about Roux. She'd almost given in to the temptation to call him, but she didn't know what she'd have said. Trying to figure out where Roux fit in her life was confusing.
"You slept maybe three hours in Paris," McIntosh commented.
"I've slept less."
"The night before was no picnic, either. It catches up to you after a while. You're not going to do yourself any good if you're dead on your feet when we get to Dakar."
"I'll be fine by the time we get there." Annja lifted the window cover.
A silver quarter moon hung over a bed of fluffy white clouds. The sky was indigo above the clouds but quickly deepened to black.
"How far out are we?" Annja asked. She'd been immersed in one of the books containing topographical maps that had been delivered to de Gaulle and hadn't noted the time.
McIntosh glanced at his watch. "About two hours. You still have time for a nap."
They were scheduled to land in Dakar at 8:15 p.m. local time.
Annja closed the window cover. "You've got a fixation on naps, Special Agent McIntosh."
"I just wish I could sleep. I never can on an airplane," he said.
"Why?"
McIntosh shrugged. "I never have been able to."
Annja looked over her shoulder, spotting Hallinger and the other Homeland Security agents. McIntosh had assured her that most of the men with them had come out of the CIA and had previous experience in West Africa. Most of them, Annja had noted, were also African-American. They looked like grim, competent men.
"Nobody else seems to be having a problem." Annja resettled in her seat.
"Yeah, well, I wish I wasn't."
"You're not quite living up to the big, bad special-agent image, McIntosh."
"This isn't exactly what I set out to do."
"You didn't want to be a spy guy?"
McIntosh's lips curled into a smile. "I wanted the babes. Don't get me wrong there. I grew up on James Bond movies. But after you reach a certain point in your life, you realize those are just movies."
Annja smiled back. She liked that McIntosh could be honest, and that he'd seen the world differently as a boy. Some men never grew up.
"Then how did you get to be a spy?" she asked.
"I'm not a spy. I'm a federal agent."
"There's a difference?"
"I think so. I chase threats to our country. It's an important job. My dad was a cop. I was, too. He did Vietnam. I did the first Gulf War. After that, cop work made sense. I was good at what I did. Made detective in Atlanta pretty quick. I liked the work. Putting bad guys behind bars. I thought that's what I'd do until I retired, then maybe join my dad's security agency. He started that up when he pulled the pin."
"Then why the change to Homeland Security?"
McIntosh was quiet for a moment. His eyes didn't meet hers. "My mom and dad had never been to New York City. They'd always talked about going. My mom more than my dad."
Dread knotted Annja's stomach. She was certain she knew what was coming, but she couldn't stop it. She'd elicited this by trying to question McIntosh's motivations.
"They went to New York," McIntosh went on in a voice that was devoid of emotion. "They were inside the World Trade Center the morning it came down. We were on the phone, Dad giving me grief about something. Just like usual. Then...they weren't there anymore." He was silent for a moment. "After that, when the Department of Homeland Security was formed, it made perfect sense to me that I be part of it. So I've been working out of the Atlanta PD ever since."
Without a word, Annja reached over and took his hand. She felt the calluses under her fingertips. "This isn't the hand of a guy who just rides a desk."
"No." McIntosh squeezed her hand gently, accepting the support she offered. "I have a small ranch. I do a lot of the work myself." He looked at her. "You know, I've been partnered with a lot of guys who would tackle a perp onto the hood of a moving car, but I wouldn't want them holding my hand."
Annja laughed, and in that, with the return of the humor, the melancholy was put in abeyance. At least for the
moment. She was sure it returned regularly.
"So tell me," Annja said.
"What?"
"Why are you scared of sleeping on planes?"
McIntosh smiled. "I was on a plane that went down, barely survived the crash."
She looked into his eyes. "You're lying."
"I have episodes of missing time on airplane flights."
"Fear of alien abduction?" That was an urban myth made popular by The X-Files. Annja shook her head and rolled her eyes.
"Don't believe that one, either?" he asked.
"I'll know the truth when I hear it."
McIntosh took a deep breath. "You ever watch The Twilight Zone?"
"Sometimes. The Rod Serling version or the later one?"
"The classic episode with William Shatner."
"The gremlin on the wing?" Annja laughed, and it felt good to do that. For the moment, they were thirty-five thousand feet in the air and Kirktown's violence and the danger coming with their arrival in Dakar seemed a million miles away.
"Hey," he protested. "That's not funny."
"Yeah, it is."
Then McIntosh's eyes crinkled as he smiled, too. "Yeah, I suppose maybe it is." He was quiet for a moment. "In all seriousness, Tafari is a dangerous man."
"I kind of got that the first time he almost killed us. I learned clue-gathering from watching Scooby-Doo as a little girl."
McIntosh shook his head. "I can't imagine you as a little girl."
"I was. Once."
"Where did you grow up?"
"New Orleans."
McIntosh grimaced. "Not a lot of good things have happened there lately."
"No."
"But you live in Brooklyn now."
"I see somebody did a background check," she said.
"I did an Internet search, too. You beat Kristie Chatham hands down when it comes to archaeology."
Annja cocked an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of it. McIntosh didn't say anything more. She kept looking at him.
"What?" he asked finally.
"That's all you're going to say?"
"If I said anything else, I think I'd be in trouble. No matter what I said. And I really don't want to jeopardize the hand-holding because it kind of helps on the whole gremlin thing."
Smiling, Annja leaned back in her chair. "Wise move, Special Agent McIntosh." She closed her eyes and slept.