The Third Caliph

by Alex Archer

  Annja didn’t answer.

  “I know it started in 1812, but that’s about it. If it was important to what we’re going to do, I’d trust you to know everything you needed to.” Mac smiled like a cat, lazy and condescending. “We’re both experts.”

  “I concede your point.”

  “Good. What I’m suggesting is this—we both have something to trade. I have a team capable of extracting your friends from a bad situation. You have the means of guiding me to them, and Mustafa. And Mustafa is rumored to travel with a sizable nest egg in gold and jewels, which I’ll take as payment for my team’s services. That way you’re not out a nickel and you get your friends back.” Mac paused. “If they’re still alive.” He eyed her speculatively. “Is that too blunt?”

  “No. That’s fine.” That thought hadn’t strayed far from Annja’s mind.

  Mac returned his attention to the window. “How soon can you be ready to go?”

  “I’m ready now.”

  “Good, because I think you’ve got company.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mac pointed through the window and Annja joined him. Down in the street, a pair of black SUVs braked to a stop in front of the hotel. Men in suits got out, and from their complexions, Annja felt certain they were Middle Eastern. The drivers stood beside the vehicles and chased away the valets and bell boys. Eight other men strode toward the hotel’s front door.

  “Do you know them?” Mac remained calm and unhurried as he let go of the window drape and freed a semiautomatic pistol holstered at his back.

  “No. And why do you think they’re here after me?”

  “Maybe they aren’t. Maybe they’re after some other American pop culture star who’s staying at this low-rent hotel. You want to hang around and take the chance?”

  “Not really.” Annja had a bad feeling about the men. She’d learned to trust her instincts. However, she wasn’t too happy about trusting Mac. She got the distinct impression he knew more than he was telling.

  Still, he offered a chance at getting to Smythe and the others. If that didn’t work out, she still intended to do what she could to free them.

  “If I’m wrong, we’ve got an early start and you can chalk me up as paranoid.” Mac looked around at the room. “You need much of this stuff?”

  “Not really.” Annja folded her computer and stuffed it into her backpack. The mini satellite dish went into a protective pocket. She hauled the backpack over her shoulders.

  Mac stepped past her to the door. He grinned at her. “Never met a woman who could pack so fast.”

  “I’m feeling inspired.”

  Keeping his hand on his pistol under his shirttail, Mac opened the door and filled the opening so that Annja couldn’t pass. Close on his heels, she peered over his shoulder.

  Two maids with pushcarts occupied the hallway. No one else was around.

  “All right, let’s go.” Mac took the lead and headed toward the back of the hotel, moving quickly toward the steps.

  Annja moved with him. Her phone rang and she silenced it at once, noting the caller ID.

  Garin.

  She accepted the call and pulled it to her ear. “Now may not be a good time,” she said quietly.

  “I’m returning your call.” Garin sounded irritated. “Do you know how many people are waiting for me to call them back even as we speak?” His voice was deep and strong, and it conjured up images of him. He was an imposing man, six feet four inches tall, broad and powerful, with straight black hair, dark eyes and a square jaw. He was an attractive man, and that part of him that was pure outlaw made him even more so.

  “Is there going to be a test?”

  Mac flicked an irritated glance at her as he opened the stairwell door and went through. “Put the phone away.”

  “Give me a minute.” Annja didn’t like being told what to do.

  “A minute for what?” Garin covered the mouthpiece to talk to someone else and Annja knew she didn’t have his full attention.

  “I’m in Morocco.”

  “Am I supposed to be interested?”

  “I was calling to ask for help.”

  Mac headed down the stairs and Annja shadowed him.

  “Still not interested.”

  Garin was lying, though. Annja heard that in his voice.

  “Some friends of mine have been captured by Bedouin slavers.”

  “Then write them off or set them free.” Garin’s reply was blunt and matter-of-fact. “If they don’t have anything you want, there’s no reason to take the risk.”

  “Not exactly the answer I was looking for.”

  “I’m not the yellow pages. You’re not the only person with problems.” Garin sighed. “What do you need?”

  Incensed now, Annja refused to even think about Garin helping. She had Mac and his people now. They could be in Marrakech within hours. She didn’t know how long it would take Garin to mobilize a team. “Nothing. You called too late.” Annoyed, she broke the connection and pocketed the phone, turning to follow Mac as he reached the first floor.

  Mac wasn’t happy with her, either. Annja read that in the man’s body language. Her phone conversation hadn’t worked out all the way around.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “A friend.”

  “Does your friend have a name?”

  “Yes.”

  Mac shot her a look. “Holding back information isn’t smart.”

  “He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  For a minute, Mac looked as if he was going to argue with her. Then he focused his attention on the rear door out of the hotel.

  In other countries, the rear door would have had security locks. Some of the better hotels in Erfoud had security measures. But this one didn’t. Annja had been in and out this one during the days she and Smythe had prepared for the dig. She’d liked the freedom to come and go whenever she wanted.

  Opening the door, Mac peered out.

  Behind Annja, footsteps crept into the hall. She glanced back and saw three of the men in black suits come around the corner from the main lobby. They spotted her at the same time and reached under their jackets.

  The lead man spoke loudly. “Annja Creed! Stay where you are!”

  Well, that confirmed they were there for her. Annja reached for the sword.

  With a quick lunge, Mac caught Annja’s elbow with his free hand and yanked her toward the door, throwing her off balance. She was halfway through the exit before she knew it. At the same time, he took one step in front of her and raised his pistol, firing a quick succession of shots that filled the hallway with thunder.

  Morning sunlight slanted down into the narrow alley between the hotel and the building behind it. Erfoud, like many Moroccan cities, was a maze of alleys and buildings that offered blank walls at the first-floor level. Locked doors barred entrances to buildings and to outer courtyards.

  The alley was so narrow that the black SUV hurtling down it almost scraped on both sides. The throaty roar of the motor echoed within the narrow space.

  At a glance, Annja thought the vehicle looked a lot like the ones that had parked in front of the hotel. Through the dark windshield, a Middle Eastern driver kept both hands on the wheel and accelerated.

  Mac stepped out into the alley and fired his pistol at the SUV. The bullets cracked the windshield in several places and skipped from the hood and roof. Then he put a hand in the middle of Annja’s back and shoved.

  “Run!”

  Annja ran, knowing the alley was too long and that they’d never reach the other end of it before the SUV overtook them.

  Chapter 14

  Annja spotted an arched doorway only a short distance ahead of her. She ran and hoped that she didn’t trip over a cobble
stone, trying not to think about how close the SUV was getting. She dodged to the right and fit herself into the doorway, pressing up hard against the wooden barrier as she slid her backpack off one arm and to the side.

  She reached out and caught Mac, pulling the man into the doorway with her, his body slamming into hers as the SUV caught him a glancing blow. She held on tight to his jacket, hoping he wasn’t badly hurt.

  The SUV driver braked and the tires squealed.

  Annja peered into the alley, thinking maybe they had time to sprint back to the other end. At the same time, though, the men inside the hotel boiled out into the alley, spotted her and opened fire.

  Ducking back into the recessed door, Annja tried the door. It was locked. Beside her, Mac changed magazines and released the slide of his pistol. He was breathing hard but didn’t appear to be injured, and he looked calmer than she felt.

  “The door’s locked.”

  He glanced at the door, then took aim at the lock. He fired three times, ripping splinters out of the wood and reducing the locking mechanism to broken metal.

  He pushed the door and it swung inward.

  Annja bolted into the courtyard, a larger, ornate riad. Moroccans designed their interior gardens so Islamic women would have privacy. Their “little Edens.”

  Evidently whoever owned this one did quite well. A fountain in the center of the space created a rainbow of spray before trickling down into the recessed basin. The traditional orange trees occupied one side of the courtyard. The sides of the tadelakt plastered walls were covered with zellige tiles. Quotes from the Koran were written on the tiles in flowing calligraphy.

  The riad fronted three stories of personal dwelling space. Wrought-iron railings ran around the floors and stairs led to the upper floors on two sides. The walls were yellow and red.

  Mac’s pistol cracked behind Annja. “They’re here.”

  “Did you come to me by yourself?”

  “No.”

  Annja yanked the straps of her backpack back on. “Where’s your team?”

  “I’ve got a driver waiting, a couple of extra men. But they’re not ready for something like this.”

  The SUV backed up to the open door. A man rolled down the window and took aim with a machine pistol. Mac fired a few shots and drove the man back into hiding.

  “Come on.” Annja sprinted forward, ignoring the stairs, and leaped for the second-story landing’s edge. She caught hold and hauled herself up, climbing the railing and lunging for the next. Mac cursed loudly, but put his pistol away and climbed up after her.

  Bullets slapped the front of the home and Annja felt sorry for whoever lived there. She hoped no one was home.

  On the second floor, Mac flipped over the railing instead of following Annja up to the third floor. He drew his pistol, took deliberate aim at the man firing at them from the SUV and fired twice.

  Hauling herself up, Annja glanced over her shoulder and saw the gunner in the SUV fall backward, already limp in death as his face gushed blood. She chinned herself onto the rooftop, then swung herself sideways to get a leg up on the edge and stay low. Her breathing came hard, but she was in good shape and moved easily.

  Mac holstered his weapon again, stood and climbed to the railing to haul himself up to the third floor. He glared at Annja. “As far as exit strategies go, this one sucks.”

  “Only if we don’t make it.”

  In the alley, men yelled commands. The SUV pulled forward, away from the front door, and the gunners from the hotel swarmed into the riad. They opened fire at once and bullets thudded into the house, scarring the walls and shattering the windows.

  One of the bullets struck the roofline near Mac’s right hand. The roof crumbled in his grip and he swung wildly, barely maintaining his one-handed grip. Even if a fall didn’t kill him, it would probably leave him too injured to get away, and he’d be a sitting duck for the men hunting them.

  Annja reached down and caught a handful of Mac’s jacket, then pulled as hard as she could, adding her strength to his. His feet scrabbled for purchase and he came over the roof’s edge, immediately sprawling across the curved roof tiles. A few of them shattered under his weight. Bullets hammered some to pieces.

  Pushing herself up into a crouch, Annja headed toward the peak. Her boots occasionally slipped and shattered tiles slithered away. The steep angle of the roof made the going harder and even more dangerous.

  When she reached the peak and spotted Mac struggling to come up behind her, Annja caught hold of one of the tiles, set her feet on either side of the summit and whipped her body as though she was throwing a Frisbee. The half-pipe tile whirled through the air and caught one of the gunmen in the face. The man collapsed backward as the broken tile tumbled down his body.

  Mac hauled himself across to safety. Once they were on the other side of the roof, they had shelter from the gunners. Bullets still cracked the tile, then quickly stopped.

  Annja crept out to the roof’s edge and looked across. The next house was within easy jumping distance. She looked back at Mac and discovered he’d assumed a prone position with his pistol pointed before him.

  “Are you coming?”

  He didn’t move as he said calmly, “Give me a sec.”

  One of the men clambered up the roof after them.

  Annja hated watching what was about to happen. She’d killed before, but in the heat of battle, when her life—and the lives of others—was on the line.

  As soon as their pursuer’s head cleared the roofline, Mac put a bullet between his eyes, snapping his body back. He fell without a sound.

  Mac turned toward Annja and carefully crossed the roof. “That’ll hold them for a minute, but they’ll be circling the building, and I don’t know how many there are.”

  Without a word, Annja took the lead. They raced across the rooftops, moving across five other houses before dropping into another alley. Mac took out his sat phone and spoke rapidly in a voice too low for Annja to overhear. He finished his conversation and put the phone away.

  “Who was that?” Annja shouldered her backpack and walked toward the end of the alley. The street looked clear.

  “A friend. I’ll introduce you in a minute. He’s coming to pick us up.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we get my team together and go get your people.” Mac glanced at her with new awareness. “You had some good moves back there for an archaeologist.”

  “We were lucky.”

  “Yeah.” Mac nodded, still studying her. “We were.”

  “Do you know who those men were?” Annja stared into his deep brown eyes and waited for him to lie to her.

  Mac hesitated. “Yeah. They work for a guy named Habib ibn Thabit. Do you know him?”

  Annja shook her head. The name held no meaning for her.

  “Guy’s a terrorist. One of the really bad ones. The CIA’s tracking him all over the place. They want him as much as they ever wanted Osama bin Laden. Thabit networks money for other terrorist organizations, puts cells into motion to strike big targets.”

  “Did he follow you here?”

  “Not me.” Mac scratched one of his muttonchops. “Guy must have been after you. I barely beat him here. If I hadn’t gotten to you when I did...” He shrugged.

  Annja kept walking and thought about that. “Doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never had any contact with this guy. Why would he come after me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then how do you know those guys belonged to him?”

  Mac gave her a cold grin. “Me and Thabit, we’ve traveled some of the same circles. This isn’t the first time we’ve traded paint.”

  “Traded paint?” Annja considered what she knew about the man. “You’re American. The accent is from the South. I guess you’re a NASCAR fan?”
The term came from the sport, from when two cars bumped into each other during a race and “traded” paint.

  Mac’s expression turned frosty. “A word of advice, Miss Creed?”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t get to know me any more than you need to. We’ve got a business transaction, nothing more. I get your friends out of trouble. I keep you safe. I get Mustafa and his treasure cave. We keep that straight, we’re going to do fine. Understand?”

  “Yeah. Crystal.”

  Once they stepped into the street, a small sedan that had seen better days pulled to the curb. A young black man with a South African accent sat behind the wheel and looked anxious. He eyed Annja, then Mac.

  “Are you okay?”

  Mac nodded and opened the back door, then waved Annja in. She slid over. Mac got in beside her. “I’m good.”

  “I saw those guys getting out at the hotel. I almost came after you, but you told me to stay with the car.” The young driver glanced over his shoulder, took his foot off the brake and edged into traffic.

  “You did as I told you to do. Everything was fine.”

  The driver paused at a corner and glanced over his shoulder. “So you’re Annja Creed?”

  Annja nodded and offered her hand. “I am.”

  The young man smiled, but his expression remained cold, his eyes dead. He took her hand, and his flesh felt hot and rough. “I am Yahya. Do not worry, Miss Creed. Mac and I will take care of you.” He took his hand back and accelerated.

  Annja leaned back against the seat and looked at the street, but she remained acutely aware of Mac sitting beside her. He was quiet and contained, but she felt his energy. He was like some kind of wild animal poised and waiting for the next prey.

  Annja had to focus on getting Smythe and the others back, but she couldn’t help wondering about Habib ibn Thabit and why a man she’d never heard of might be so interested in her.

  * * *

  LESS THAN THIRTY MINUTES later, Annja stood in a warehouse at the edge of Erfoud. Mac had chosen the place as a staging area for his troops—he’d gathered eight more people to fill out his team. Six of them were men with obvious military training. Two were women, one African and the other Middle Eastern. The men wore street clothes and the women wore hijabs. Annja didn’t think that necessarily made them Muslim, but it disguised them. In Morocco, women tended to be invisible.