The Third Caliph

by Alex Archer

  Sirens sounded outside.

  Unhurriedly, Thabit nodded to his bodyguards. They picked up the dead man and threw him back into the car. One of them closed the trunk.

  “We should go, my friend.” Thabit pulled a card from his jacket and handed it to Saidi. “Call this number at eleven o’clock tonight. The final arrangements will be given to you then.”

  Saidi nodded. “Thank you. Your faith in me and my men is not misplaced.”

  Thabit smiled. “I did not think it would be.” He stepped toward the car and one of the bodyguards opened the door. He slid into the backseat, then craned to check his face in the rearview mirror to make sure he’d gotten all the blood.

  The bodyguards got in, then the driver drove them through the other exit. Flames still wreathed the dead bodies in the alley, and the driver didn’t slow as he rolled over the corpses. Sanjay followed his escape route, easily avoiding the Algerian police.

  Thabit relaxed in the backseat, taking a final glance at the carnage he’d wrought. The CIA might step up their efforts to get him. He didn’t expect anything less. But that was fine. He had plenty of places to hide, and his fellow Muslim freedom fighters would respect what he had done. That not all of them were on the run. Thabit intended to put as many of his enemy as he could in his gun sights. His peers would relish that almost as much as he did.

  His phone rang and gave him pause. He slipped the device from his pocket and glanced at the ID.

  “Hello.”

  “A lost document written by Abdelilah Karam has just surfaced in Morocco.”

  Thabit’s heart stilled for just a moment. Since before birth, he had been cursed. He had not even known of it until he was thirteen. For the past twenty years, he had dismissed the idea of a curse having power. Of a curse bringing him potential disaster. Yet...

  Now here it was.

  “Tell me what has happened.”

  “Have you heard of Annja Creed?”

  Chapter 8

  Erfoud

  Kingdom of Morocco

  Inspector Khouri worked out of a tiny office, but it was an office, not a cubicle. There was a feeling of privacy that the cramped quarters couldn’t quite expunge. The inspector sat in front of an archaic computer and typed with two fingers. He wrote in his own language, so the only things Annja recognized on the screen were her name and the names of the dig crew.

  Waiting for Khouri to enter everything was mind-numbing and emotionally exhausting. Annja felt the need to be up and moving. She was certain Mustafa wasn’t making life easy on his captives.

  “They are British citizens.” Annja struggled to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

  “Yes, yes, Miss Creed. I understood that the first time you told me. And it is here in my report.” Khouri tapped the computer screen. He glanced at her over his shoulder. He had to use glasses to see the computer, and he gazed at her over them now. “I must fill out this report if anything is to be done.”

  Annja made herself take a breath. “How long do you think it will take to do something?”

  Khouri shook his head. “I do not know. You are talking about the mountains. That is beyond the jurisdiction of this department. All I can do is forward this to the military. Perhaps they can do something.”

  “Perhaps?”

  The inspector spun his chair around to better face her. “Miss Creed, you have to understand that what you are suggesting—”

  “I’m asking for help for my friends.”

  “—is not simple. Those mountains are very dangerous. The bandits make that region even more so.”

  “Who can help them?”

  “We can try. I am trying.”

  “Perhaps you could try the British consul.”

  Khouri frowned. “Surely you see the problems with that, Miss Creed. Imagine if I were to go to New York City and get mugged. Then, instead of letting the local authorities deal with the matter, I called in the Moroccan embassy. Do you think the New York Police Department would sanction that?”

  Annja wanted to scream. She was beginning to believe she would have been better off staying to defend the dig team on her own. Except that she knew she’d been outnumbered. All she would have been able to do was get herself in deep trouble.

  “No,” she answered in a civil tone.

  “Good. Then we are in agreement. You can see how the military would be reluctant to go into those mountains.”

  “I have their location on GPS. I’ve explained that.”

  “I understand, and I have put that in my report.” Khouri took a breath. “Now, please, let me finish inputting all the details.”

  Unable to sit any longer, Annja stood and gathered her things. “You’ve got all the information I can give you, Inspector. Sitting here watching you type it into your report isn’t going to help.”

  Khouri hesitated a moment, obviously wary that he might be stepping into a trap, then nodded. “You have given me their pictures, their location and the name of the man you believe is behind this. Do you know where you’ll be staying?”

  “You can reach me through my phone. You have the number.”

  “Very good.”

  “Call me when you have news.”

  “The very minute, Miss Creed.”

  * * *

  ANNJA WAITED TILL SHE cleared the police station before calling Garin Braden at one of the numbers he’d given her. Garin was the only man other than Roux linked to Joan of Arc’s sword. At the time Joan of Arc had been burned at the stake, Garin had been a young man given to Roux, Joan’s protector, as a slave, more or less. And then Joan had died, and the sword had been broken. That was over five hundred years ago. Garin had lived over five hundred years. Annja didn’t know how long Roux had been around. Their longevity was a mystery.

  They hadn’t gotten along when Joan was alive, and the loss of her and the sword had been the final straw. They’d gone their separate ways shortly thereafter—relatively speaking, given the past five hundred years—and remained somewhat distant. On several occasions, they had tried to kill each other. Since Annja had equally mysteriously made the sword whole, and it had claimed her, they shared an uneasy truce.

  An answering service picked up the call in German. “Hello, this is Mr. Braden’s personal assistant, Inga. How may I help you?” The voice oozed sex and money, two things Garin idolized.

  “Hi. This is Annja Creed.” The personal assistant surprised Annja. The few times she had called Garin before, he had always picked up.

  “Yes, Miss Creed. How may I help you?”

  Annja walked along the street, keeping watch in the windows of the small shops she passed.

  “I would like to speak with Mr. Braden, if I may.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Braden is indisposed at the moment. Might I take a message?”

  Indisposed? Annja’s mind raced. Indisposed could mean he was in jail or off fighting for his life. Garin Braden owned legitimate companies, but he also managed several illegal operations, as well. One of his semilegal operations was fielding a mercenary group. Annja was hoping to call in a favor on that score.

  “I would like Mr. Braden to return my call at his earliest convenience. The matter is life or death.”

  “I understand, and I will give him your message. Several of Mr. Braden’s dealings of late have been life or death matters.”

  Annja frowned, wondering if the woman was trying to antagonize her.

  “Might he reach you at this number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Braden will doubtless return your call when he is able. Have a nice day.”

  Have a nice day? Annja fumed as she listened to the dial tone. She called Roux, but the old man wasn’t any easier to reach than Garin had been. Reluctantly, she pocketed her phone and glared up into
the distant Atlas Mountains.

  Having no other choice, she flagged a passing taxi and headed for a hotel room. Any other time, she could have happily roamed Erfoud for hours. Now all she could think about was the danger the dig crew was in.

  And that parchment scrap she’d managed to get her hands on.

  * * *

  IN THE SMALL HOTEL HALLWAY, Annja surveyed the door, checking for telltale signs that the room had been invaded. Seeing nothing immediately noticeable, she used her key and entered.

  Erfoud didn’t have five-star hotels, and those were generally something Annja didn’t splurge for, anyway. Not on Chasing History’s Monsters’ budget. She preferred the smaller hotels because they gave her a chance to interact with people who weren’t just going to shuttle her off to the nearest tourist attraction. While on her journeys, she’d gotten to know small, out-of-the-way places to eat, and had sometimes stumbled onto really good artifacts.

  She wanted to take a bath. After days of living under primitive conditions, she wanted to be clean again. Instead, she set her backpack on the floor near the tiny desk, pulled out her computer and got to work. She had email addresses for Garin. She quickly sent messages, asking that he get in touch with her.

  When she checked the GPS coordinates, they were still there, blinking patiently. She took solace in the fact that she hadn’t lost track of the team.

  Then, because she had no other choice yet than to wait, and because she was, at her best and her worst, curious, she opened up the responses she’d gotten from her blog postings.

  The first six emails were from people who more or less agreed with her assumption that the writing was Kufic. Two of them thought it was a variant, but not one they’d seen before.

  The seventh email, from tailorsboy444@houseoffirenze.org, provided more enlightenment.

  Hey. I recognize the name Abdelilah Karam as a little-known historian of the Ridda Wars, which were also called the Wars of Apostasy. I’m sure you know those struggles came as a result of the argument over who would lead the Muslim people after Muhammad died.

  I don’t know if this is the same person named in your document, but it would be an incredible find if it was. Karam has a couple good pieces about the defense of Medina and the fallout that occurred afterward. Maybe he deserves more recognition? How did you find this? You didn’t say.

  That was interesting. Annja mused over that for a moment while she typed her thanks, but told tailorsboy444 she had to sit on the location of the find for the moment. The Ridda Wars had taken place in 632 and 633, and they were headed up by Abu Bakr, Muhammad’s father-in-law. Bakr had been named the first caliph after Muhammad’s death.

  But if this was the same Abdelilah Karam, what was he doing in Morocco? Once the caliphate had been settled, or at least reasonably functional, the Muslims had begun the invasion of Persia. Surely historians would have been far more involved with that than whatever had brought Karam to Morocco.

  And who had buried him in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains? And who had killed him? For what?

  Questions buzzed through Annja’s mind like fighter planes. She was grateful for the distraction, but she kept checking the GPS coordinates. They were miles outside of Marrakech. They had been traveling for the past few hours.

  She was getting hungry. Starving herself wasn’t going to do anyone any good. She gathered up her computer, regretted the fact that she still hadn’t bathed and went to get something to eat.

  Chapter 9

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Brawley Hendricks sat in his office and stared at the picture he���d taken with Paul Gentry only a few short years ago. The young agent looked so innocent and so sincere as he smiled back at Hendricks. Beside Paul, his young bride, Heather, was pregnant, carrying a baby bump, as the young people called it these days. She was blonde and beautiful, and as innocent as Paul had been when this photo was taken.

  She’d been one of those good wives, able to accept that her man often disappeared to God only knew where to do the right thing in the world. And Hendricks had made her a widow today because he’d been prideful enough to believe he had had the upper hand on Thabit.

  Hendricks’s hand trembled as he touched the framed photograph. He had to make things right. Even it if meant stepping outside the lines to get it done.

  “You doing okay?”

  Glancing up, Hendricks saw Morely standing in the open doorway. The liaison still looked shaken himself.

  Hendricks cleared his throat. “As well as can be expected, yes.”

  Morely seemed to want to say something else, but didn’t. He patted the doorway. “If you need anything...”

  “Sure.”

  “You should get out of here.”

  “I will.”

  Morely hesitated once more, then he left.

  Quieting his rage, Hendricks shut down his computer, grabbed his coat and briefcase, and left the office. He knew where he had to go. After his earlier meeting with Heather, he knew what he had to do.

  Curtain Bar

  K Street, Washington, D.C.

  THE BAR OCCUPIED A NICHE on Washington, D.C.’s, Fourteenth Street, not far from K Street. Back in the 1970s, the area had been the city’s red-light district. Over the years, though, the neighborhood had been cleaned up. It was now home to small businesses that kept low profiles. Back in the day, Hendricks had gone there to get information, and to hire people for less than savory purposes.

  Hendricks stood outside in the afternoon sun and lit a cigarette. He squinted through the smoke and looked out over the city, which had changed so much in the past few decades. It was going to change again, just keep turning over like a cesspool. As he filled his lungs with smoke, he realized he hadn’t thought of D.C. like that in years.

  In fact, he hadn’t come calling on Sophie in almost a decade. He wondered if she’d changed. He knew he had, gotten older and more beaten down.

  His phone chirped. He took it out of his coat pocket and looked at the screen.

  Are you coming in? Or are you going to stand out there and brood?

  Hendricks smiled. He dropped the phone back into his pocket, crushed his cigarette underfoot and walked toward the small bar.

  A large black doorman stood in front of the plain wooden door with Curtain written across it in small bronze letters. A coiled wire in one of the man’s ears indicated he was connected with someone inside. The guy was nearly seven feet tall and imposing in gangbanger clothing. As Hendricks approached, the man looked at something in one of his large hands, and Hendricks knew it was a smartphone that probably had his photograph on it.

  The man nodded but didn’t speak. He thrust his chin toward the door.

  An electronic lock popped open. Hendricks entered.

  The clientele at the bar watched Hendricks as he stepped into the small room. They were young, and had the hard eyes military people who had seen death up close tended to get. Hendricks recognized the look because he shared it.

  The times had changed. Almost as many women occupied the room as men now, and they weren’t there as arm candy. They had hard eyes, too.

  The bartender was an older man, but still younger than Hendricks. That little fact made the CIA section chief feel even worse. A small television hung from the ceiling behind the bartender, and turned to CNN.

  “Can I get you something, sir?”

  “Scotch. Make it a double.”

  The bartender nodded, then poured and handed the drink over.

  Hendricks raised an eyebrow.

  The bartender cut his eyes toward the back of the room, but made no move. Hendricks knew the man would have a weapon behind the bar.

  Turning, Hendricks looked down the row of booths at the back of the bar. No one sat there as far as he could tell, but the las
t couple booths weren’t visible. No one would get past the people in the room unless they were cleared. He carried his glass, less shaky now than he’d been back in his own office, and knew that he was about to step across a line he hadn’t crossed in nearly twenty years.

  He found Sophie sitting in the last booth, and she didn’t look much different from the last time he’d seen her. He guessed from their history that she was nearly as old as him, but could have passed for his daughter.

  The dark hair was cut shorter, more in trend with today’s styles, but it was the same color as it had always been. Her brown eyes stood out more, and her chin looked more forceful, more chiseled. Her lips were bright red and looked as if they were wet. Her long fingernails were the same color as her lipstick.

  The tabletop turned out to be a computer monitor that currently showed a small gray kitten playing with a ball of yellow yarn.

  “Hello, Brawley.” She smiled at him as if she meant it. The skill of appearing sincere was what had made her so deadly.

  “Hello, Sophie.”

  She pointed to the other side of the booth. “Have a seat.”

  Hendricks sat heavily as if the weight of the world was crushing him. He rested his forearms on the table. On the monitor, the kitten batted the ball of yarn over and over again, trapped in endless repetition.

  “It’s been a while.” She picked up a coffee cup and sipped.

  “It has. You look good.”

  “Thank you. I take care of myself. I have a personal trainer, a nutritionist and cook.”

  “You deserve it.”

  Sophie studied him, then leaned back in her seat. “From anyone else, I’d think that was sarcastic.”