by Alex Archer
The horse drank thirstily as she quietly talked to it. “We’re going to be fine. The others are going to be fine.” She didn’t know who needed to hear that more. She or the horse.
When she’d bailed from camp, the canteen had been full. She’d had to make the quart of water stretch. Under optimum conditions, a human was supposed to drink a gallon of water a day. A horse needed a gallon of water per hundred pounds a day. She figured her mount went at least a thousand pounds, so she needed ten gallons of water for the horse alone.
They didn’t have it. By stretching their water, she didn’t know if she was staving off dehydration or prolonging the torture.
The horse licked the final drops from the plastic, then snorted and stamped its feet.
“Sorry, pal, but that’s all we have for right now.” Annja patted the animal reassuringly, then put the plastic and the canteen away. Muscles aching, she pulled herself into the saddle and got under way again.
* * *
BY MIDDAY, ANNJA WAS struggling to stay in the saddle. The gentle wind swept up dust devils across the flat landscape, but they were mixing in with the mirages that blurred her focus. She blinked several times to clear her vision, but it didn’t help. She needed water, food and rest, and she wasn’t certain which was most necessary.
Dust flared in the distance. At first she thought it was just a figment of her imagination, then when the dust moved in a steady stream, she began to hope. It was hard to make out the vehicle through the dust cloud, but she believed it was a four-wheel pickup.
She brought the horse to a stop, then pulled the rifle off her shoulder, pointed it toward the sky and fired. The horse stutter-stepped, but halted when she pulled on the reins. Just too tired to run.
The shot echoed over the flat land. For a moment Annja thought the vehicle’s engine had drowned out the noise, then the pickup stopped. The dust that had been trailing behind the vehicle gradually overtook it and sailed on by.
Annja waved before realizing that someone inside the pickup was probably taking aim with a rifle, as well. She tugged off the makeshift keffiyeh and exposed her chestnut hair. That clearly marked her as something other than a bandit, and there was no place for anyone else to hide around her.
Carefully, throat dry, she leaned away from the saddle and dropped the rifle. She held her hands up.
Slowly, the pickup wheeled around and started out across the desert. The dust cloud bloomed again behind it.
* * *
“WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT are you doing out here?” The man pointed a sawed-off shotgun at Annja and glanced around suspiciously. He was in his forties, seasoned by the harsh land, his skin dark and weathered. A turban wound around his head and dust coated his beard. His English was good, but the Berber accent was pronounced.
“My name is Annja Creed. I’m trying to get back to Erfoud.”
“You’re American.”
“Yes. I need to speak to the police,” Annja said slowly so the man could better understand. “I was with an archaeological team. Last night a group of Bedouin slavers raided the camp. I managed to escape.”
“You were lucky.” The man still didn’t lower the shotgun. “I am Samir.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” At least, Annja hoped it was. From the look of the pickup, Samir was a craftsman of some kind. Several toolboxes sat in the back of the vehicle. Judging from the saws and hammers and carving tools, she thought he was a carpenter.
“Are you injured?”
“No. I’m worried about the horse. We’ve covered at least twenty-three miles, as best as I could estimate. It hasn’t had enough water.” Annja eyed the orange five-gallon water container strapped to the side of the pickup. “I can pay you for water.”
Samir hesitated, then put the shotgun back under the seat. “Worrying about your horse is a good thing. This desert country can be unforgiving.”
“Actually, it’s not my horse. I stole it from the Bedouin.”
Samir grinned as he got out of the pickup and walked to the back. “Even better that you should be worried about someone else’s horse.”
“I’m also worried about my friends.”
Nodding, Samir unstrapped the water container and set it on the ground. “I understand. We will attend to them, as well. The bandits are even more unforgiving than the desert, and I do not mean to alarm you, but there is no way you will be able to find them in all those mountains.”
“I will be able to find them.”
“Really?” Samir removed the top from the water can and pulled the horse over to it. The animal stuck its muzzle into the water and started noisily sucking it down.
“Really. I put a device in one of their saddlebags.”
Samir patted the horse’s neck. “Very clever, but I don’t think you understand. The Moroccan police will not be so inclined to go searching for your friends out there.” He nodded at the mountains. “Those places are very dangerous.” He frowned. “They will be even less inclined because your friends are Americans.”
“Some of them are British.”
The man shrugged. “They are foreigners.”
“We employed some locals,” she said.
“The Moroccan police would not go into those mountains to find anyone unless they knew they would have the upper hand. There are too many hostile factions out there. The Frente Polisario, the Shiites and certain Bedouin tribes.” He looked at her with his deep brown eyes. “You should be grateful to God you survived.”
Annja didn’t comment, but she was thinking of the others. “Can you take me to Erfoud? I can pay you.”
“Payment will not be necessary. I would not leave you out here like this.” Samir scratched the horse’s mane. “Or this beautiful animal. That would be a most wicked thing to do. There is a caravan with animals only a short distance back toward Erfoud. Let us get the horse there, then we will get you to the city, yes?”
“Thank you.”
* * *
THE TRIP BACK ALONG the caravan trail seemed interminable because they had to go slowly to allow the horse to keep up, despite the second wind it got from the water. Samir had tied the reins to the back of the pickup. The pickup ground along slowly, and the transmission whined in Annja’s ears.
Samir also shared the lunch he’d packed. Annja had at first turned down the offer, but he’d been good-natured and insistent. She’d graciously accepted one of the bocadillos in his lunch box. The sandwich consisted of a baguette stuffed with salad and a fried egg and was spiced liberally with pepper and mint.
Annja ate with gusto, adding goat cheese and mandarins, washing it all down with green tea spiced with mint from a large thermos. As she ate, she dug out the piece of the scroll she’d managed to escape with. She spread the parchment out as best as she was able on her knees and took pictures of it with her digital camera.
Samir glanced over at her. “Is that something you found on your hunt?” His voice was muffled through the scarf he wore to keep the dust out of his mouth and nose.
“Yes.” Annja put her camera away and regarded the scroll again.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
Samir glanced at the scroll. “The writing looks Arabic, but it’s unfamiliar to me.”
“It’s Kufic.” Annja gently traced the straight lines and angles, then followed the elongated swirls. “The same language the original Koran is written in.”
“I did not know that, and I follow Muhammad’s teachings.”
Annja smiled. “Many Christians in the United States don’t realize that the Bible wasn’t written in King James English. Their Bible was originally a Greek translation of the Hebrew bible.”
“So many things to know.”
“I think the primary issue is to believe.”
“True, of cour
se.” He turned his attention back to the dirt road. “Can you read any of it?”
“A little.” Annja scanned the writing again and tried not to give in to frustration. She loved mysteries, as long as they obligingly rolled over and gave up their secrets. She was even more exasperated now because she couldn’t give the scroll her full attention.
“What does it say?”
“It seems to be a travelogue. Details of a trip. Something like that.”
“Seems fascinating.”
Annja could tell by Samir’s tone that he really didn’t think so, but she didn’t hold that against him. Most people didn’t care for the things archaeologists found unless curses or interesting stories accompanied them. She seemed to find more than her fair share of those, and she couldn’t help thinking again that the sword put her on a collision course with those things.
Annja sipped more green tea from the travel cup Samir had loaned her.
He pointed. “We can leave the horse there.”
Annja looked up and saw a small caravan crossing the flat land. Even though she had seen caravans before, she couldn’t help but be struck by the primitive nature of the crossing.
Dozens of men and women walked on foot, carrying large bundles and packs on their shoulders. Many of them were going to trade goods at market. Others were moving for better circumstances, Annja knew. Several tourists walked with the caravan. They’d probably be catching buses to take them back to their hotel rooms and air-conditioning shortly.
Some of the travelers rode horses or camels, but many of them rode bicycles. There were even a few motorcycles. Taken all together, the caravan looked as if it had marched through time and sucked in travelers from across the centuries.
“If you want, I can even negotiate you a fair price for the animal.”
Annja shook her head. “No. I just want to make sure it finds a good home.”
Samir pulled over to the side of the road and got out. Even before the dust settled, he called out to one of the men riding a camel. The other man greeted Samir enthusiastically and guided his lumbering beast over to the pickup.
After a brief conversation, Samir handed the horse’s reins up to the camel rider, accepted a small package of nuts and fruits in return and said goodbye.
The camel rider waved to Annja and called down in English, “I love your show!” He gave her a big thumbs-up.
Despite the situation and her fatigue, Annja couldn’t help grinning. She waved back. “Thanks.”
Turning, she caught Samir staring at her, and had to briefly explain Chasing History’s Monsters to him.
“A good day.” Samir slid behind the wheel again and cranked the engine over. “You have met a fan.”
“Yeah.” Annja had to admit, they showed up in the oddest places.
Samir let out the clutch and they got under way at a much faster speed. The rushing air cooled Annja, but it didn’t take her mind off her friends and what might be happening to them.
Chapter 6
With only twenty-four thousand residents, Erfoud had a small police force, which was divided into two sections. The Gendarmerie Royale dealt with traffic problems, and the Commissariat Central took care of criminal problems.
Samir let her out in front of the small building off rue de la Piscine. Moroccan flags flew outside the building, sandwiched between the Protection Civile d’Erfoud and the Maison Tafilalet pour la Culture. Annja thanked Samir again, listened to him refuse any offers of payment and wished him well.
Inside, the building was a little cooler but not much. Despite the size of the city, everyone here was busy. Probably all the foreign traffic through town, tourists as well as archaeologists.
After a brief interview, she was shown to a chair. She looked around the waiting room, spotted an outlet and took the seat next to it under a wall filled with tourist warnings of fraud. It only took a moment to hook into the outlet with her phone and computer chargers. When she checked the bars on her sat phone, she had a strong signal. The satellite phones were supposed to be able to ping a communications satellite from anywhere on the planet, but Annja had learned that wasn’t necessarily true.
When the phone came online, she saw that she’d missed several calls. One was from Bart McGilley, probably just to check in and say hello. Three were from museums she’d promised certificates of authenticity, and eight were from Doug Morrell.
Before she returned any of the calls, she took out her computer and brought up the GPS detective software. She tried to access the Wi-Fi inside the police station but discovered that she needed a password. She took out the portable satellite microdish for the computer and logged in. Only a couple minutes passed before she got two pings—close together—in the Atlas Mountains. Relieved, she breathed easier knowing she could find the dig team.
If they were still alive.
She pushed that thought out of her mind, then got out her portable scanner, brought up the program on her computer and ran the wand over the scroll. She had to stay busy. Only a few minutes later, a high-definition copy of the scroll showed up on the computer screen. She logged on to the archaeology sites she frequented, and uploaded the digital image of the scroll.
In addition to the travel mentioned in the scroll, Annja had also found the name of the author: Abdelilah Karam. She’d gathered from what she could decipher that he was traveling under harsh circumstances.
Her accompanying message was short and direct.
Looking for someone who can help me decipher the scanned document above. Looks like Kufic to me. Any other guesses?
Satisfied with the post, she went through photographs taken by the dig crew and copied them to a folder. The rescue crew would need to know who they were looking for.
Confident she’d done all she could do at the moment, she called Doug Morrell. The time difference between Erfoud and New York City was six hours. Morocco didn’t do daylight savings time. With the time currently being 3:40 p.m. locally, that meant in New York it was 9:40 p.m.
Doug picked up on the first ring. “Annja, I’ve been calling and calling.”
“I know. Sorry. I’ve been out of touch.”
“You have a sat phone. You’re not supposed to be out of touch.”
“The phone was dead.” She’d also been busy cataloging the find, but she wasn’t going to mention that.
Doug sighed. Despite his tendency toward self-involvement, Annja counted the producer as one of her closest friends. He was young, in his early twenties, and had boyish good looks and a trim figure he got effortlessly because she knew for a fact he didn’t exercise.
“Okay, don’t worry about it. I’m talking to you now, right?”
“Right.” Annja checked the time on her phone. She’d been kept waiting for almost thirty minutes. That was thirty more minutes that Smythe and others had been missing, thirty more minutes of travel time. Or torture.
“I was thinking about this whole Casablanca thing, you know?”
“The dig?”
“Yeah. You’re shooting some footage on the old caravan routes, right? Camels. Ships of the desert. That kind of thing?”
“Yes, but we also discovered a find yesterday that looks like it’s going to be pretty impressive.” Annja couldn’t help thinking that she hoped the others were there to disclose the story.
“What did you find?”
“A body that looked like it had been buried for a few hundred years.”
“Was it moving?”
Caught off-guard, Annja didn’t know what to say to that. Sometimes Doug’s mind worked in mysterious ways. “No, it wasn’t moving. They guy had been dead for a few hundred years.”
“Sometimes that doesn’t stop them from moving.”
“Doug—”
“Maybe there was a quiver. You shot footage of this, ri
ght?”
“Yes.”
“Then just go back through your video and see if there’s a quiver in there. We could use a quiver. Anything to suggest the guy might still be alive.”
“He was dead.”
“You know what?” Doug sounded even more excited. “Zombies are dead, too, and they still move. Some of them faster than others.”
“Zombies?”
“Yeah. Zombies. People love zombies. Nothing’s bigger than zombies right now. We’re getting pressured to show more zombie love on the show.” Doug caught himself. “Not actual zombie love, you know, though that would be pretty cool, too. Two zombies making out, their desiccated lips falling off. Pulling on each other so hard that their arms come off. Man, the ratings spike from something like that would be unbelievable.”
“Stop!” Annja spoke louder than she’d intended and drew the attention of several people sitting nearby.
“What?”
“Morocco doesn’t have zombies.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, Doug.”
“Because I think you’re wrong about that. They’ve got mummies, and mummies—in my opinion—are just another form of zombies. Did you know that The Mummy starring Brendan Fraser was shot in Morocco?”
“Yes, but it was supposed to be Egypt.”
“Evidently the Moroccans believe in zombies or they would never have allowed Brendan Fraser to battle Imhotep in their country.”
“I think the money the film industry brought in had a lot to do with that. Anyway, mummies aren’t zombies. They don’t come back from the dead.”
“Annja, there are lots of stories about mummies coming back from the dead. Usually to get the grave robbers that disturbed their tomb.” Doug tched. “You gotta watch more movies.”
“I’m not watching movies about zombies.”