by Alex Archer
MacKenzie took the man’s hand. “You can call me Al.”
The name struck Annja as humorous even though this was not the best time for humor.
“Please. Sit.” Houssine gestured to the chairs around the table. As the gatekeeper had promised, there was bread and cheese, and several selections of fruit. “Help yourselves.”
“We just ate.” MacKenzie’s voice was neutral. “And we don’t have much time.”
“All right.” Houssine poured tea into cups sitting near Annja and MacKenzie, then into his own. “What do you wish to know?”
“Where Mustafa is. How many men he has.” MacKenzie sat in the proffered chair, but he was anything but relaxed. “I was told you were the one who would know.”
Houssine picked up his tea and sipped, then held it in both hands, elbows resting on the tabletop. “I do know about such things.”
“My friends were kidnapped by him three days ago.” Annja didn’t touch the tea. She slid out of her backpack, but set it close to her chair.
“The archaeological expedition, yes, I had heard of that. Most unfortunate.” Houssine’s voice took on a timbre of sympathy, but emotion didn’t touch his dark hazel eyes. “But you’re here to rectify that, are you not?”
MacKenzie ignored the question. “Tell us what you know about Mustafa.”
“Do you have a map?”
The mercenary reached into his shirt pocket with his left hand. His right hand had never left his hip. Yahya had remained apart from the table and had taken up a position across the enclosed space from the man who had answered the door. The young man’s attention was directed solely at Houssine’s apparent major domo, who had also stayed away from the table.
Other than the open front of the dining enclosure, a door behind Houssine led into what Annja guessed was the main house. Above them, a latticework held a thick mesh of flowering vines that filled the area with sweet scent. Despite the glimmering candlelight and their effusive host, she couldn’t help but feel a little cornered.
One-handed, MacKenzie brought out the map, shook it once so that it unfolded with a whip-crack and laid it on the table.
Houssine smiled and gestured to the map. “May I?”
“Be my guest.” MacKenzie slid the map across.
Studying the map, Houssine took out a gel pen and his cell phone. He thumbed a few buttons, then studied the screen as the soft blue glow played over his hard features. The light revealed that he was older than Annja had believed, probably in his mid- to late forties.
“I have map coordinates for Mustafa. Longitude, latitude. Of what was his last known location.” Houssine wrote quickly and his handwriting was surprisingly clean and uniform.
“How did you get those coordinates?” MacKenzie watched the man write.
“I had business with him.”
“What kind of business?”
Houssine looked up and gently pushed the map back across the table. “The kind of business that I do. I sold him guns.”
Again using one hand, MacKenzie refolded the map and put it back in his shirt pocket. “How many guns?”
“Several.”
“What kind?”
“Military grade.”
MacKenzie scratched his chin with his free hand. “That’s going to make our job harder.”
“I wasn’t doing business with you at the time or I might have curtailed my sales.” Houssine shrugged. “Of course, from Mustafa’s point of view, my telling you where to find him isn’t going to help him any.”
“You have a point. What about the number of men?”
“Thirty. Possibly thirty-five. If the group gets much larger, Mustafa is going to find it hard to remain hidden out there. He doesn’t have a lot of supporters. He has lived a violent life, and I expect him to meet a violent end.” Houssine leaned back in his chair. “As for yourself, Al, you have a choice.”
MacKenzie lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. “A choice?”
“About whether you meet a violent end.”
As Houssine’s voice tailed off, the ruby-red disc of a sniper scope dawned on MacKenzie’s chest. Annja spotted the light immediately and couldn’t help checking her own chest to see if another had formed there. Nothing.
Smiling and self-assured, Houssine brought up a pistol from under the table. “Mustafa didn’t just buy my guns. He also bought my services. He wants Annja Creed alive, but he doesn’t care whether you live or die. So, which will it—”
MacKenzie uncoiled like a striking rattler. He lifted his boot and drove it into the table, knocking it into Houssine’s chest and driving the man over backward. Pushed back by the force he’d used on the table, MacKenzie went over backward before the gunner with the scope could fire.
The gatekeeper brought out a pistol, but before he could even get it up, Yahya pulled out his own weapon and shot the man twice in the chest before dropping into a loose roll and coming to his feet beside the houseman. He pointed the pistol at the man’s head and squeezed the trigger one more time to ensure the kill. Then he rose up in a half crouch against the stone wall as running feet slapped against the stones.
Chapter 18
Bailing from her chair, looking back along the stone pathway leading through the courtyard, Annja closed her hand on the sword’s hilt and yanked it from the otherwhere. Moonlight gleamed along the razored steel as she brought the weapon around in front of her. She leaped onto the table, crossed it in one stride and jumped down again to confront Houssine. The man lay stunned on his back.
Annja kicked the pistol from his hand and fisted his shirt. He tried to reach for her but Annja ducked forward quickly and yanked him upward, driving the top of her head into his face. When he fell back, he looked dazed again, and this time blood streamed from his nose and mouth.
Behind her, MacKenzie rolled to his feet with his pistol in both hands. He and Yahya laid down cover fire that bought them a brief respite from the men closing in from the courtyard.
Still in a crouch, Annja reached out and tipped the heavy table over. Judging from the weight and the solid wood construction, it would provide a brief barrier from flying bullets.
“MacKenzie, back here.”
The mercenary glanced over his shoulder as he changed out magazines in his weapon. He understood at once. “Yahya.”
Together the two men crouched behind the shelter with her as a hail of bullets ripped into the table. The deadly leaden storm didn’t penetrate, though.
Annja felt certain from the muzzle flashes she saw that eight or ten gunmen were closing on their position. Getting back the way they’d come was out of the question. She glared down at Houssine.
“Get on your feet.”
Groggily, Houssine tried but couldn’t quite manage it. Annja pulled him up. Almost immediately, bullets slapped into the wall beside him, driving stone splinters into his face.
“Stop shooting! Stop shooting!” Houssine wrapped his arms around his head and ducked.
Sudden silence filled the courtyard.
Annja shoved Houssine toward the door. “Open it.”
Houssine cursed and fumbled with the door, finally getting it to open back into the adjacent building. Dim electric light filled the eight-foot hallway that led into the house’s main room. Houssine started forward.
Annja held on to him by his shirt collar as she grabbed her backpack from where she had left it, then followed. “How many men are in the house?”
“I don’t know.”
Annja yanked on Houssine’s shirt collar at the same time she kicked the man’s rearmost foot sideways, causing him to trip. Using his momentum and the leverage she had, she rammed Houssine’s face into the wall. He cursed and covered his face.
She let him feel the razor-sharp sword’s edge against his neck. “Don’t lie to me
or I’ll kill you right here.” She wouldn’t, of course. But Houssine had been prepared to do that, so he couldn’t imagine that anyone wouldn’t do the same if they had proper motivation.
“Five or six. I don’t know. I don’t keep track of all of them.”
“Sloppy management. Guess you missed the Villainy for Dummies book.”
Houssine wiped his face and didn’t say anything further as Annja propelled him forward. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that MacKenzie and Yahya were following. Both men held their pistols up before them and remained in crouches as they backed toward her.
As they stepped into the main room, Annja spotted the sniper up on the second-floor landing, crouching behind his rifle at the railing. Only forty feet away, the sniper didn’t have to be good to hit his target.
“MacKenzie!” Annja kept Houssine in front of her despite his attempt to get away, but two more men in the room were closing in on her fast.
Desperately, Annja shoved her captive forward, keeping him upright for only another five or six steps. Houssine went down, tripping over his own feet. Knowing she didn’t have much time to act, Annja released her hold on the man, let go of the sword and sprinted across the room as a bullet clipped her cheek.
The harsh crack of the weapon pummeled her hearing. The two men who had closed on her were suddenly behind her, lifting their weapons.
Annja sprinted for all she was worth, veering to her left. When she reached the wall there, she put her left foot up against it at an angle, gained momentary purchase and shoved herself up as though she was running up the wall. She managed two steps, then gravity started to reassert itself over her momentum and she shoved toward the second-floor landing.
Catching the railing in one hand, Annja swung forward, caught hold with her other hand and managed to vault over the railing without it tearing away. The sniper tried to whirl around, astounded that she’d managed to get up there with him, but he was too late. Annja set herself, spun and delivered a roundhouse kick to the man’s head that knocked him over the railing.
The rifle, abandoned as he fell, teetered on the railing for an instant before Annja seized it. She didn’t bother with the telescopic sights. She just pointed at the nearest man downstairs as the sniper crash-landed, then pulled the trigger.
The rifle bucked against her shoulder and the bullet caught her target somewhere in the chest. Surprised, the man staggered for a moment, tried to shoot his weapon, then sprawled over Houssine.
The other man already had Annja in his sights, but before he could pull the trigger, MacKenzie shot him through the head. The corpse dropped bonelessly into the pool in the middle of the room and blood fanned out through the water.
MacKenzie put a foot on Houssine as the man tried to get up, then shot him in the face. Houssine slumped back as MacKenzie brought out his sat phone and talked hurriedly.
Annja tossed the rifle aside and raced down the steps on the side of the room near the main door. Yahya exchanged bullets with the men in the hallway, keeping them pinned down, while MacKenzie opened the front door.
A moment later, MacKenzie led the way outside, immediately turning right to face the oncoming car driving without its headlights on. He opened the door and ushered Annja inside, then Yahya. When he closed the door, he took the front passenger seat for himself and the driver got under way.
MacKenzie reloaded his weapon and slid it out of sight just as they roared out onto the street.
* * *
BACK AT THE HOTEL, Annja felt hollowed out and was regretting eating so heavily at dinner. She walked through the lobby expecting more of Houssine’s gunmen—or the local police—to jump her at any moment.
MacKenzie walked her to her door. “You going to be all right?” His warm brown eyes met hers and he seemed genuinely interested.
“I’m fine.” But Annja kept remembering how MacKenzie had so cold-bloodedly killed Houssine. That was something Roux or Garin would have done without a second thought, as well. Trained killers.
She hoped she never grew that callous, but she knew she was already a far cry from where she’d been when she first picked up Joan’s sword. Would Joan have turned out like Roux and Garin if she had lived long enough? Annja had never wondered that before, and she didn’t like thinking about it now.
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
MacKenzie nodded. “That move up the wall, that was pretty awesome.”
“Adrenaline.” Since she’d picked up the sword she’d become capable of feats of strength, speed, endurance and agility that she’d never been capable of before. She didn’t know if the sword gave her those skills or if it had simply unlocked those abilities within her.
MacKenzie rubbed his stubbled chin with the back of his hand and dried blood flaked away. He nodded toward the room. “Are you okay in there by yourself?”
“I’m fine. But what about the police? Or Houssine’s men?”
“Houssine’s people are going to be looking for a new employer. A lot of them will scatter back to the streets. That’s where he got them from, and they haven’t learned anything better working for him. As for the police...” MacKenzie shrugged. “They’re not here now, so I’m betting they don’t know anything about us. Strangers wander in and out of this city every day. We get through tonight, we’re gone by first light. Nothing left of us but a vapor trail.” He smiled. “Get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need it tomorrow.”
“You, too.”
MacKenzie turned and walked away. Annja watched him go, noting the bloodstains on his pant leg from when he’d shot Houssine on the ground. She made herself turn away and open the hotel room door.
* * *
WHILE ANNJA HAD BEEN OUT, things had developed with the document on the user sites. Annja was grateful for that. As tired as she was, she was still buzzing with adrenaline and knew she wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a while.
She sat cross-legged on the floor and cradled her notebook computer in her lap. Freshly showered, she felt somewhat better, but she wanted to be back in her loft in Brooklyn surrounded by all her things.
With all her electronics plugged in and charging, she went through the research sites and forums she usually haunted, but came up with nothing but speculation about Abdelilah Karam’s work. [email protected] had the strangest theory.
Everybody knows how Solomon locked all the demons in his seals, but not everybody knows that Abdelilah Karam was doing the same thing for the Muslims that Solomon was doing for the Jews. Do you really think that Christianity named all the demons? No! There were lots of them in the Muslim world, too. Muhammad believed he’d been possessed by demons. Check it. Abdelilah Karam was locking away all the Muslim demons unleashed by the writing of the Koran.
Annja sorted through the rest of the emails and most of the forums and didn’t find anything new. However, when she checked her personal email and phone log, she discovered messages left by Dr. Khadija Zayd, a historian from Aligarh Muslim University’s Centre of Advanced Study.
Ms. Creed, what an amazing discovery! I congratulate you on your good fortune. I only just learned of your interest in Abdelilah Karam through a mutual acquaintance, Dr. Woolcot. Ernest is a dear friend.
Also, I know he has Professor Manning working with you regarding the translation of the manuscript you found. I can’t wait to hear what he has to say once he has finished. This must be very exciting for you.
I believe I am in possession of some information you and my esteemed colleagues lack. Abdelilah Karam was “encouraged” by Muhammad himself to work to keep the Muslim people together. You see, Muhammad knew—in the days of his failing health—that his succession would be most troubling. Given that the Muslim community—my community, in fact—has fractured as much in its own way as have the various other religions, he was, of course, most prophetic.
I jest. But I would like to talk to you about Abdelilah Karam at some point. Perhaps I could offer you new insight into what he was possibly doing in Morocco.
Yours most warmly,
Khadija Zayd
“Well, well, Professor Zayd, I would like to speak with you, too.” Annja opened her sat phone’s address book and entered the professor’s information. It was too late to call now, but Annja resolved to do that first thing in the morning. Waiting till then was going to be hard.
Chapter 19
“Do you know who the woman is talking to?” Yahya sat across from MacKenzie at the breakfast table in the small restaurant only a few blocks from their hotel. Filled with nervous energy, he unconsciously tapped the table with this right thumb.
MacKenzie glanced through the window and watched Annja Creed as she leaned against the building and talked on her sat phone in the morning shade. The woman had seemed distracted this morning, and he’d gathered it had something to do with that scroll she wasn’t talking about. She ate out there, as well, dipping her hand occasionally into her take-out bag.
“No.” MacKenzie turned back to the bissara he was having for breakfast. He wasn’t a fan of split-pea soup mixed with olive oil first thing in the morning, but the idea of trying to get to lunch on a piece of bread and jelly wasn’t something he wanted to deal with this morning. It was times like this that he missed his granny’s breakfasts: biscuits and gravy, ham hocks and scrambled eggs. Something that would stick to a man’s insides.
“She seems very excited.” Yahya frowned as he watched her.
“She is very excited.”
“She doesn’t even know if her companions are still alive.”
“She hopes they are. You can see it in her eyes.” MacKenzie sipped his tea. “It’s not about those people the Bedouin have. She’s an archaeologist. It has to do with that scroll they found when the Bedouin took them prisoner. She hopes to recover the rest of it.” Even though Annja had not mentioned this, he knew it was true.