by J. R. Rain
“Who’s the big guy with the emir?” I asked.
Farid’s lips curled in distaste. “He is the Emir Kazeem Ali of Riyadh.”
“Omar’s brother?” I asked.
Farid shrugged. “Kazeem was sired from one of the king’s many wives. I have lost track which. But, yes, his half brother.”
“You don’t seem particularly fond of him,” I said.
Farid shrugged, and that was all I would get out of him. “We’ve had our differences in the past.”
I changed the subject. “Why are we being held prisoners?”
Farid shook his head. He looked like a big sad elephant. “I’m just the hired help, remember? Come, the emir will show you himself.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Emir Omar Ali sat behind a long oak desk. The desk, bare, save for a laptop computer and a battery-powered desklamp with a pliable neck, seemed entirely out of place on the glaciers of Ararat. Faye and I stood before the emir, Farid guarding the exit, a pistol jutting from the bodyguard’s hip. I was confident Farid could draw and shoot before I took two steps. An Arab gunslinger.
The emir was typing slowly on the laptop, hunting and pecking. The monitor glowed in eyes that seemed listless and dull. Omar wore a plain white robe, open at the neck, revealing a dark nest of curling chest hair. His mustache, as always, was immaculate. Thick gold rings glinted from his fingers. The rings were as wide as his knuckles. Omar had not yet bothered to acknowledge us.
Leaning casually against the tent’s center pole was a larger version of Omar, dressed similarly, with just as many gold rings cluttering his fingers. Emir Kazeem Ali. The young prince watched us contemptuously, lips turned down. His dark eyes flashed from under an equally thick brow. His eyes moved casually over myself, lingering longer on Faye. His lips curled up, and he inhaled deeply, massive chest filling out like a dirigible. Obviously, he had seen something he liked.
Kazeem pushed himself away from the pole, and stepped lightly before us, casting me the merest of glances. I could have been nothing more than a road sign to nowhere. He eyed Faye slowly, molesting her with his eyes. Then he admired the view from behind.
The big son-of-a-bitch reached out and stroked Faye’s auburn hair, and she cringed and leaned into me. I sensed a tiger stalking his prey, and I moved to knock his goddamn block off when one of the guards shoved the barrel of his weapon into my neck.
Suddenly a large hand fell across Kazeem’s bare forearm, followed by Farid’s deep voice: “You will not touch her, emir Kazeem.”
Slowly, deliberately, Kazeem allowed Faye’s hair to slip between his fingers. He turned calmly and faced Farid. The two massive men could have been professional wrestlers. “You dare threaten me, nomad?”
“You will not touch her,” repeated Farid, “by orders of Emir Omar Ali, your brother.”
Kazeem’s chest rose and fell rapidly, perhaps as adrenaline filled his bloodstream. “You were plucked from the desert, where you washed your hair with camel urine, to do our bidding, which does not include carrying out orders against me.”
Farid, to his credit did not let go of the arm.
Omar snapped shut his laptop and leaned back in his swivel chair, crossing his arms over his shrunken chest—a chest that had once been strapped with muscle. “Enough you two. Farid, unhand my brother. You know better than that.”
Farid did as he was told.
“And, Sam, you would do well to remember that Kazeem is hot-tempered and prone to violence, and I can control him only so far.” Omar chuckled. “Kazeem is threatened by Farid. You see, Farid may be the only man in my country who does not fear Kazeem. Someday, I will let them go at it, and see who’s left standing.”
Kazeem grunted and stepped away, knocking Farid with his shoulder. The young prince disappeared through the tent opening. Omar turned his attention to me. “You’re supposed to be dead, Sam Ward,” he said evenly. “Or so I was told. Killed in an avalanche.”
“Courtesy of your men, I presume.”
“You presume correctly. The avalanche was not an accident or coincidence, and would have been a fitting end for a man such as yourself.” He shook his head sadly with great regret.
“It’s the thought that counts,” I said. “We were followed?”
“We knew you were coming the moment Miss Roberts arrived in town. It was just a matter of time.”
I leveled my stare at the Arab prince. “You have no reason to imprison us, emir.”
“Regrettably, I cannot permit you to leave, Sam.”
Faye stepped forward, balling her fists, but Farid calmly reached out and restrained her. She tried to shrug loose from his grip, failed. She had guts. “Not only have you kidnapped us, but you’ve murdered a defenseless shepherd. Are the Turkish authorities aware of the atrocities being committed on their mountain?”
Omar’s lips tightened. I think most of us were holding our collective breaths, except Faye, who was breathing through her nose like a raging bull through the streets of Pamplona. “I am the authority on this mountain, Miss Roberts. When you speak to me, you speak to judge, jury and executioner. You would do well to remember that. And the shepherd was not meant to die. He was to serve as a lesson for the others to keep away.” Omar suddenly stood. “Come. You will follow me.”
* * *
The eastern sky was brightening from a midnight black to a midnight purple. Snow continued to drift across camp in a satiny veil with irregularity and little enthusiasm. We were led from Omar’s private tent to the massive tent that dominated the center of camp, rising before us like a skyscraper of white nylon. The whole thing was anchored in place by stakes so massive that the Titanic would have been kept at bay. The flapping of hundreds of square yards of white nylon fabric was thunderous—the sound of ocean waves crashing against a rocky shore.
At the entrance stood a handful of soldiers, submachine guns strapped to their backs like arrows in a quiver. Omar and his Merry Men.
The wind pressed the emir’s robe against his frail body, revealing his narrow, emaciated frame, as his headcloth flapped behind him like a cape. Omar was inconspicuously hanging on to the arm of his bodyguard, should the emir be blown away on the wind. Farid was carrying an odd sort of metal suitcase that appeared quite heavy, even for him. There was another man I noticed for the first time. He was small, with round features. His glasses had ice on them, which he rubbed with a gloved finger. He looked nervous and anxious.
Faye’s hand found mine, and squeezed. I squeezed back. Her fingers were frighteningly cold. I lifted her hand up to my mouth and let out a steady stream of hot air from deep within my lungs to warm her fingers.
As Omar spoke, there was a brief flicker of his old self: slick, cool, and ready to conquer the world. He grinned wickedly, looking remarkably like a ringmaster at a circus, about to introduce the next freakish display of human deformity. All he needed was a top hat and a whip. Omar motioned with his hand and Farid pushed aside the tent opening.
Omar said, “This way, if you please.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Powered by humming generators, a dozen or so spotlights dazzled my eyes upon entering the massive tent. I blinked back the tiny black spots that swirled across my vision, like flies over a picnic lunch. In the center of the tent there appeared to be a tangle of black metal. At first it was impossible to discern what the hell it could be, especially with the shadows created by the powerful floodlights. But then recognition set in. Faye must have come to the same conclusion at roughly the same time because she squeezed the hell out of my hand. A knuckle or two popped, both mine.
Before us was a blast from the past. It was a reusable mobile MAZ-543 transporter-erector-launcher, or TEL. I knew it well. Straight from the Persian Gulf War. In the war, I had flown my share of sorties: the endless search for Iraq’s ballistic missiles. The infamous Scuds. Nowadays, Scuds fly further and more accurate. And can carry increasingly more dangerous payloads.
The black metal of the static launcher
gleamed dully as workers swarmed over the aperture, like termites over a mound. Although such launchers were mobile, and could often be pulled behind a truck, it took a lot of planning to haul one up twelve thousand feet, while not alerting the Turks themselves.
“I assume the launcher was assembled piece by piece over a matter of months,” I said.
“You assume correctly, Mr. Ward. Let me assure you, the Turks are unaware that a launcher has been erected in their backyard. Ironic that their soldiers protect my privacy, even as I plan their destruction”
“But why here on Ararat?” I asked.
“The perfect cover. The local Kurdish freedom fighters have a huge base here on Ararat, even within Ararat in some locations, well hidden from the Turks. These rebels provided the launcher and missile—and I provided the final ingredient.”
I looked again at the gleaming metal case in Farid’s hand. The case was heavy even for him. I nodded as realization dawned on me. “You’re not planning to launch a conventional warhead.”
Omar’s eyes blazed. He looked truly insane. “No, Sam.”
Faye turned to me. “What do you mean?”
“The emir’s gotten his hands on a weapon of mass destruction. Possibly nuclear. Russian-built, no doubt. Auctioned to the highest bidder and all that. Nothing that a lot of money can’t buy.”
Faye stared at the metal. “Can it be that small?” she asked. “My God, it’s no bigger than a school backpack.”
Omar grinned. “To create the high temperature required to start the fusion reaction within a thermonuclear bomb, my dear, one needs a space no larger than a coffee thermos.” Omar turned to me. “However, Mr. Ward, this is not a nuclear warhead.”
“What is it then? Chemical? Biological?”
“The scientific term for it is bacillus anthracis.”
“Anthrax,” I breathed.
“Yes, Sam. Anthrax. Only the United States and Russia have successfully converted this biological toxin into a weapon of mass destruction. Others have tried. Iraq has made a laughable attempt at it, but they have failed to succeed in distilling the anthrax into powder form. Russia, in particular, has perfected the process of converting the toxin into powder form, which makes it easily inhaled. On a good day, with the wind in my favor, the toxin spores could kill hundreds of thousands of people.” Omar paused. His face was flushed, burning with intensity. “And shortly, once my ballistics technician arrives, the anthrax warhead will be fitted and armed.” He grinned. “The final peace of the puzzle.”
“For a night launch, I assume,” I said. A night launch could go undetected, with little chance of noticeable emissions.
“In fact, I’d hoped for tonight, but I’ve been informed that my ballistics expert is late. I’d do the job myself if I could. Unfortunately, I’m no expert in biological warfare.”
“Unfortunately,” I said.
At the rear of the tent, a sort of golf cart wobbled in, driven by a shivering Kurdistan worker. He was pulling a rattling flatbed. On the platform, covered in a blue plastic tarp, was a cylindrical object four feet in length and as wide as a man’s body. It was the Scud missile. Although not the most flattering name it is the missile of choice in the Middle East. North Korea and Russia make them dirt cheap, cranking them out the way Nike cranks out Air Jordans.
“So who’s getting the bomb?” I asked.
Omar was silent. Behind me the cart containing the Scud missile came to a screeching halt. Sub-zero temperatures are also hell on brake pads.
“Istanbul.”
* * *
“I assume you have good reason for obliterating one of the world’s oldest and most significant cities,” I said.
Omar shook his head, staring off into the middle distance. “I do not need to justify myself to a prisoner.” He paused. “But I will tell you a little story. Forty-five years ago, the Turks, in their vehemence to eradicate the troublesome Kurds, destroyed a simple village in Eastern Turkey. There were few survivors. One was a small boy who found his home in burning ruins. There he saw the burned corpses of his brothers and sisters. His mother, still alive, writhed as the skin pealed from her face. She died in agony.
“Later, in an orphanage, the boy would meet a very generous woman. In fact, she was a Saudi princess, a woman with no children of her own. A woman with a huge heart. Touring the ravaged countryside, she would take pity on the homeless, family-less boy. He would return with her to Saudi Arabia. There, he would live a fairytale life of wealth and privilege, where his adopted mother loved him with all her heart. But love was not enough to erase the scars.”
Omar’s eyes glistened in the artificial light.
“Yes, Sam. I’m here for revenge.”
* * *
“Ballistic missiles are visible to intelligence agencies,” I said. “Their flight paths can be predicted, and warnings can be provided to their intended targets. You will lose the element of surprise, emir. Not to mention defensive systems that can come on line for missile interception.”
“All true, Mr. Ward. But I will take my chances. Even with proper warning, it is difficult to evacuate three million people.”
Faye stepped forward, fists clenched, breath steaming before her in a bullish sort of way. “Then why keep my father prisoner? Why use him and his student to search for the ark?”
Omar flicked his dark gaze to Faye. “I would have disposed of the old fool and his student long ago but Al Sayid found a use for them.”
“Who the hell is Al Sayid?”
The portly little man I had first seen outside ambled forward. He pushed his glasses up with a stubby middle finger and blinked rapidly behind them. “That would be me, my dear.” He spoke in flawless English.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Professor Al Sayid from the university in Riyadh.”
Omar said, “The professor is an avid ark researcher like your father. In fact, Al Sayid added the necessary validity to convince the Turks to close the mountain.”
Al Sayid’s metal framed glasses slipped to the end of his nose. He promptly pushed them back up. “Your father is onto something. That cave of his is most unusual, and may prove invaluable. But I’m afraid we are down to our final days. Time is short.”
“Frankly,” said the emir, lip curling with disdain, “I could care less about this blasted ark. Once the missile is launched, I will be happy to go and leave this wretched mountain behind.” He paused a beat. “Then I can die happy.”
“You and three million people,” I said.
He stared at me for a long moment. “For now, Mr. Ward, you will help the others clear the tunnel, which will give me some time to decide your fate.”
I sucked in air. “And what of Miss Roberts?”
“She will stay here, with me, of course. The cave is no place for a lady. Farid, take her away.” He paused. “And this time do not let this one escape.”
The words should have been meaningless, and perhaps they were. But I stopped breathing, and even my heart seemed to pause. But it was Farid’s expression, the look of pained regret that showed in the deep furrows of his brow that made me realize my reaction was valid. Farid inhaled deeply, let it out in a steady stream that fogged before him.
I turned to Omar. “Who escaped, emir?”
Omar flipped his hand casually. “It is of no concern to you.”
I heard the blood pounding in my ears, felt the throb of it behind my temples. “Who?”
“Guards,” said Omar, raising his voice and looking down at his fingernails. “Take him away. He has much work to do.”
A hand reached for me and I knocked it away. Rifles swung in my direction. I ignored them. I took a step toward the emir, and this time a much bigger hand held me back. Farid’s hand.
He looked at me with a pained expression, and for the first time I saw real emotion behind those lifeless eyes. “I am sorry, Sam. It was an accident.”
“What do you mean, Farid?” I asked, but I knew what he meant. I had intuitively known
all along, I suppose.
Omar looked up, alarm on his face. “Farid, I command you to be silent.”
The big Arab ignored his master, perhaps for the first time in his career. “It happened three years ago during our first visit to the mountain. The girl had wandered too close to camp, and so our guards picked her up for routine questioning.”
“Silence, Farid!”
“She was questioned repeatedly. Had she overheard our plans? She said she had not, but we could not know for sure. I, for one, was certain that she had harmlessly blundered near our camp.”
“Farid!”
“But then she escaped from her tent, and I was ordered to track her down and bring her back.”
My throat constricted, as if seized by a hand.
Farid’s gaze was penetrating and unwavering. His voice was surprisingly gentle. “But when I found her hours later at the bottom of a ravine, she was already dead. A rockslide, I believe. Sam, I’m sorry.” The big man looked mortified. But I didn’t fault him. He was only doing the emir’s bidding.
I collapsed to my knees, tried unsuccessfully to breathe. The cold of Ararat seeped up through the fabric of the tent, up through the material of my pants, numbing my kneecap. Finally, I looked up at Omar, and when I spoke my voice shook and did not sound my own. “You are responsible for her death.”
Omar shrugged and looked away. “She should not have been on her own. As far as I see it, Mr. Ward, she was the cause of her own death. And perhaps you, too.”
I shot to my feet in one explosive movement and pounced on the emir, hands going straight to his throat. Behind me came the bolt actions of automatic rifles, armed and leveled at me. Faye screamed. The emir gurgled. I forced him up against the steel frame of the launcher, eyes bulging pleasantly from his wicked face. I concentrated all my strength into my hands and fingers in an effort to snap his neck.