by Alex Archer
“No, the worst aggression that the West sees is the alliances being made between Muslim warriors and criminal organizations. They have seen through the curtains you and your people have tried to pull over funding. The Western powers are targeting those endeavors more than they are targeting anything I am doing.”
Almodarresi frowned and pursed his lips, obviously holding back a retort.
“Greed is baring the bones of those operations. That is what is making them more vulnerable.”
“There are many who would not like it that you take it upon yourself to say such things.”
Thabit stared at him. “Tell me I am wrong.”
Almodarresi hesitated just a moment. “You are wrong.” But the declaration was made without any fire.
Thabit smiled, knowing he had scored a victory even though it would never be acknowledged. “The men I lead against the West are true Shiites, Mirza. They are not infatuated with wealth found in this world. God has their fortunes waiting for them in the next for dying in battle with their enemies.”
Thabit had allied himself with desperate men whose belief in the words of God was the backbone of all that they were.
Irritated with the conversation, Thabit squared his shoulders. “I must take my leave, Mirza. There are many things I must attend to.”
A frown formed on Almodarresi’s face, then quickly disappeared. But it was there long enough to let Thabit know the man was not pleased about being dismissed so casually. “As you will, Habib. But do take my words into consideration.”
“Of course. May God watch over you.”
“And you.”
Thabit ended the call and the connection to the television. He turned his thoughts to Annja Creed and the problem she presented. Even though he did not presently know where she was, there was a way to find her.
He punched up Rachid’s ops room on his phone. The computer specialist answered at once.
“We have lost Annja Creed.” Thabit walked over to one of the windows and looked out. The Algerian harbor receded and they motored past a sailboat with a full-bellied canvas taking advantage of the wind. The yacht’s powerful engines vibrated the floor beneath his feet and the vessel rose and fell slowly as it pushed out to sea.
“For the moment. I expect to have her whereabouts soon.”
“She is going to Marrakech, is she not? You said she was trying to find help for the archaeological crew kidnapped by Bedouin slavers.”
“Yes.”
“Put a team in Marrakech. Let them seek out these Bedouins. Perhaps we can get ahead of this woman and she will come to us.”
“Of course.”
Thabit hung up and turned from the window. Rafe MacKenzie was a mercenary. Mercenaries, as Thabit knew, were not prompted by duty to country or God. They lived on cash.
Perhaps an arrangement could be made. If not, Thabit would be prepared for that, too.
Chapter 16
R702
Between Erfoud and Marrakech
Kingdom of Morocco
Cramped and uncomfortable, Annja sat in the grand taxi’s rear seat squashed between Mac and two of his men. The taxis weren’t built for luxury. The vehicle was an old Mercedes sedan that had been converted to diesel fuel, and the fumes had ignited a dull, percussive headache between Annja’s temples that was working into her shoulders. The vehicle had no air-conditioning so the dust-laden wind whipped through the windows and the constant taste of alkali lingered on her tongue.
Mac sat to Annja’s left and the butt of the pistol he carried on his right hip dug into her side. She’d tried shifting several times to find a more comfortable position, but that seemed beyond her. She struggled not to look at the dashboard clock to see how much time remained on the trip.
Outside, darkness crept across the eastern sky and stretched toward the west. They were due to arrive in Marrakech at midnight, so relief was still hours away. To make matters worse, the driver—a lean older man with a gray beard—chain-smoked and listened to the same Taylor Swift CD over and over, adding occasional refrains in a strange mix of English and his native tongue.
She occupied herself with the information Bart had sent her regarding Habib ibn Thabit. As Bart had said, the man was dangerous, and wanted in a dozen countries.
Thabit had been born in Bahrain, had grown up there, then, twelve years ago when he’d been twenty, he’d disappeared. It hadn’t been until Thabit’s name had started turning up in terrorist-related counterespionage operations that anyone figured out who he was.
Mac gazed at the tablet PC over her shoulder. The battery was getting low. She’d have to charge it soon.
“Where did you get your information on Thabit?” Mac’s voice carried just enough above the wind whistling through the windows to reach Annja’s ears.
“I’ve got a good friend on the New York police force.” Annja felt a little self-conscious looking at the information. She’d also sent Bart a picture of Mac and discovered that the mercenary’s real name was Rafael MacKenzie and he’d been born in Mobile, Alabama. He’d graduated high school. Then—like Thabit—the man’s background grew sketchy, a mix of half truths, outright lies and cover stories. His background as a mercenary was solid, but he’d been a lot of other things over the years, as well. He hadn’t returned to the United States very often.
Bart hadn’t been thrilled to discover that she was with MacKenzie.
“What did your friend tell you?”
Annja looked at MacKenzie in the fading light as Taylor Swift sang “And I can’t breathe without you” while accompanied by the off-tune driver with a Moroccan accent. The ludicrousness of the moment struck her and she couldn’t help smiling.
MacKenzie frowned. “What do you find so amusing?”
“The serenade. The fact that your gun is poking me in the ribs. Has been for hours. And we’re both bored as we’re racing toward a dangerous encounter.”
“Sorry.” MacKenzie shifted and leaned more into his door. The movement helped some, but the gun butt wasn’t going away.
“As for Thabit, he led a very affluent life in Bahrain for a while.” Annja nodded at the tablet PC. The image there showed a young Habib ibn Thabit. “Then, when he was twenty, he left college, left Bahrain and went to Afghanistan.”
“Joined up with Osama bin Laden?”
“No, but he did join up with Shiite terrorists training inside Helmand province. He was identified by U.S. Marines and he barely avoided getting killed when the United States attacked the Taliban and al Qaeda.”
Something ghosted through MacKenzie’s dark eyes. “Those were...interesting times.” MacKenzie smiled but there was nothing friendly in the expression. “Couldn’t go home again.”
“Thabit could and did, but it wasn’t to hide out. He started recruiting hard-core Shiite believers to his cause to bring the West to its knees.”
“Ambitious.”
“I’m sure he’s not trying to do it all at one time.”
“It’s guys like that who keep me in business.” MacKenzie studied her. “You know all that, but you have no idea why the man would be interested in you or what you found out there in those mountains?”
“No.” Annja sighed. She shifted and tried to get comfortable again, but it was impossible.
For a moment MacKenzie looked out the window and studied the countryside. “Are your GPS locaters keeping track of Mustafa and his group all right?”
“They are.”
“Maybe when you get to see the rest of that scroll, you’ll know more.”
“Possibly.” Annja took a deep breath. “The main thing is getting those people safe.” When MacKenzie didn’t answer her, she felt disappointed and slightly irritated. Trying to relax the tension in her neck, she laid her head back and closed her eyes. With the driver crooning Taylor Sw
ift over the sound of the whirring tires and the wind rushing through the windows, she drifted off to sleep.
Marrakech
“HEY.” A ROUGH HAND shook Annja awake. “Hey, wake up.”
She curled her right hand into a fist and almost smashed it into MacKenzie’s face before she realized what was going on. His eyes widened in surprise, but he’d already caught her fist in his.
The car was stopped in darkness out in front of a small building. A few streetlights lined the thoroughfare, but to the north—she got her directions from the compass app on her phone—she saw a large pool of light. It must’ve come from Djemaa El-Fna, one of the main squares in the city.
Around her, the men climbed out of the taxis. MacKenzie paid the drivers and the vehicles immediately headed in the direction of the square.
MacKenzie nodded toward the few suitcases his team had brought with them. “Let’s get the rooms squared away, then go see about dinner.”
“Sure.”
“I’m going to assign a couple men to watch over our things and the rooms. Would you like them to keep your bag?”
Annja hooked her thumbs in the backpack straps and shifted the load between her shoulders. “No. Thanks, anyway.” She didn’t know if MacKenzie made the offer out of thoughtfulness or wanted the chance to go through her notes and computer.
“Okay.” MacKenzie leaned down and picked up one of the bags. He led the way.
* * *
THE CHECK-IN PROCEDURE was a breeze. Within a few minutes, Annja was in her room. This one was even smaller than the one she’d quit that morning, but after being packed into the taxi for eight hours, it seemed expansive.
Knowing she had a few minutes before meeting with MacKenzie, she retreated to the bathroom, stripped off and took a quick shower. She washed her underwear and sports bra in the tub and hung them up to dry, then dressed in the spare set she had in her backpack and put the same clothes back on.
She had to get more clothing soon.
By the time she heard a knock on the door, she felt somewhat refreshed, but she knew she was going to sleep hard that night when she returned to the room. She regretted leaving the bed, but her stomach wouldn’t be denied.
* * *
THE CITY SQUARE WAS awesome to behold. People lined up at the food stalls from a dozen different countries, judging from their dress. The smell of spices and cooked meat and fish overpowered even the scent of dust that hung in the air. Conversations in a half-dozen languages floated all around Annja as she waited for her turn at a kiosk.
MacKenzie stood nearby, but his attention wasn’t on her. His gaze roamed the crowd.
She purchased a tajine, a clay pot filled with lamb and vegetables and seasoned with ras el hanout, a mixture of spices that included cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, peppercorn and paprika. There were probably more ingredients, but that was all Annja could detect. Ras el hanout was made differently from family to family, business to business. She also ordered a halwa shebakia, a dessert of twisted deep-fried bread covered in honey and sprinkled with sesame seeds.
After thanking the vendor, she waited till MacKenzie had ordered his food. Together, they proceeded to the street and flagged down a taxi. Two of MacKenzie’s men, also supplied with their meals, rode with them.
They returned to the hotel lobby. Annja removed the conical covering over the tajine and inhaled the pungent aroma. She picked up her fork and set to work without a word as MacKenzie did the same.
For a time, they ate in silence. Annja watched MacKenzie out of the corner of her eye and caught him watching her, as well.
“Something on your mind?” MacKenzie blew on a forkful of food.
“No.” Annja was lying and she knew he knew it.
A few minutes later, as Annja was tearing her halwa shebakia into more manageable bite-size pieces, MacKenzie’s sat phone rang. He answered it, talked cryptically for a moment, then put it away and glanced at Annja. “One of my team has found a man who has information about Mustafa. I’m going to talk to him in a few minutes.”
“No.” Annja popped the last of her dessert into her mouth and chased it down with tea. “We’re going to speak to him.”
MacKenzie didn’t even try to be polite. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Perhaps not, but that’s how this is going to happen.”
For a moment Annja thought MacKenzie was going to argue. Then, slowly, his hackles fell and he gave her a grudging nod. “All right. If that’s how you want it.”
Chapter 17
“You do realize this could be a trap.” Annja walked a step behind MacKenzie as they entered one of the many alleyways that threaded through the city. The alleys weren’t always signed, but she’d learned to memorize locations by landmarks.
The mercenary had his hand on a pistol tucked into his belt at his back waistband. His shirt disguised the weapon. He moved like a big cat, easy and sure-footed. “Yeah.” He grinned mirthlessly. “That’s pretty much the reason I wanted you to stay behind.”
Point, Annja conceded. She knew he was probably better at handling himself in situations like this than she was, and that her presence there made things harder on him, but she couldn’t have stayed back in the hotel without anything to do.
One of MacKenzie’s men walked thirty feet ahead of them. Two others trailed them. Two more sat in rental cars on either end of the alley, prepared to speed to the rescue if necessary. MacKenzie had planned the operation quickly and succinctly. Annja had been impressed. When he’d finished, no one had asked questions.
The point man walked past the target doorway and stood against the alley wall, hidden in the shadows and holding a machine pistol beneath his light jacket.
“You ready to do this?” MacKenzie stopped in front of the door.
There was no name or number. The blemished surface showed a history of violence and disrepair. Not too long ago, someone had tried to liven up the entrance by painting it maroon. Enough light came from the street to reveal the color, but only just.
“Yes.” Annja hitched her backpack a little to one side with her left hand and closed her right around the hilt of the sword in the otherwhere. One good yank and it would be in the alley with them.
MacKenzie kept his right hand on his pistol, turned sideways to make himself a skinnier target and rapped on the door. The sound echoed down the alley.
A moment later, a peephole slid open in the center of the door. Weak moonlight danced in the whites of the man’s eyes as he peered out.
“You are Walker?” The man spoke in heavily accented English.
“Yes.”
The man peered past MacKenzie and stared at Annja. “How many men did you bring with you?”
“Three.”
The man considered for a moment. “Only you and one of the men can enter. And the woman.”
“The woman stays out here.”
The eyes narrowed. “This is a mistake.”
“What’s a mistake?”
“Leaving the woman out here. It is not safe for a woman so beautiful.”
Said by someone else and under other circumstances, that might not be so creepy. Annja waited, deciding then and there she wasn’t going to remain in the alley. There was already too much out of her control.
MacKenzie started to speak, but was interrupted by the man behind the door.
“If you wish the information you requested about Mustafa, the woman must enter. This is—how do you say in your language? A deal breaker.”
Annja stepped forward. “Let’s go.” She nodded at the man on the other side of the door. “I’m coming.”
“Good. We have cheese and bread. Very good cheese and bread.” The eyes vanished and the locking mechanisms holding the door closed started ratcheting open. There were enough of them to be impressive.
MacKenzie shot Annja a look. “Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
Annja kept her voice pitched low so she wouldn’t be heard. “With me, that gives us three people on the other side of that door. Shouldn’t you be feeling a little better about that?”
Cruel humor twisted MacKenzie’s lips. “You like taking risks, don’t you, archaeologist?”
Before Annja could decide whether or not she was going to reply, or whether or not she was going to lie, the door opened. The arched entrance was dark, but light gleamed off to the left. In the center of the courtyard, she spotted a garden and water shimmering on a small pool. At least two shadows patrolled on the upper floor walkway across from the entrance.
The gatekeeper stood revealed in the dim light. He wore a white shirt and white pants and a tan keffiyeh. His short beard split to reveal his bright smile as he half bowed and waved Annja inside. “Please to enter.”
Annja did, with MacKenzie and Yahya following her along the narrow stone path that led to an enclosed dining patio. The candlelight came from the table, and now that she was closer she could smell their spicy scent.
A lean, wolfish man with a neatly cropped black beard and moussed locks stood up from behind the table as Annja approached. He wore an elegant suit and she would have bet money that he’d gotten dressed to meet her. It was proof that the man sitting there had known exactly who he would be talking to when he contacted MacKenzie or his people.
“Ah, welcome to my humble home. I am Houssine.” He held his hands wide and smiled. In the candlelight, he loomed large against the stone wall behind him. He reached for Annja’s hand. “I know who you are, Miss Creed. I have enjoyed your show on several occasions.”
Annja didn’t know if that was a lie or not, but the words came out easily enough. She took his hand and felt the calluses along his palm.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Houssine released her hand and turned to MacKenzie. “And you are?”