by Alex Archer
And that Smythe and the others were still in one piece.
* * *
LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER, Annja was leaving Marrakech by camel. MacKenzie had purchased the animals from a local merchant. Outfitting his team had cost quite a lot, and she had to wonder again at how MacKenzie was so free with his money. She wasn’t convinced Mustafa was sitting on a treasure trove out in the mountains.
The sun burned down and she was certain the temperature had gotten up to nearly ninety. By noon it would be close to unbearable. She wore khaki shorts she’d purchased in the market and a white tunic top. Sunscreen covered her exposed skin and face. She’d pulled her hair back in a ponytail and wore a baseball cap and aviator-style sunglasses.
Her gear was rolled behind the saddle—additional clothing, water and food—but she wore her backpack. If things somehow went sideways, she didn’t want to be separated from her things.
MacKenzie had given her a Glock 17 and made her show proficiency with handling the weapon before he was satisfied. She’d kept it hidden when they’d ridden through Marrakech, but now that they were out in the wilderness she wore it on her hip.
She wasn’t really comfortable wearing a weapon. Bart McGilley had tried to get her to carry one in New York, but she’d declined. Of course, he didn’t know about the sword.
And if she hadn’t had such easy access to the sword, she sometimes wondered if—based on the things she faced on a fairly routine basis—she would carry another weapon. But she never wanted a gun to be the first solution she reached for.
MacKenzie rode his camel up next to hers. He didn’t look exactly comfortable riding the beast, and Annja had to struggle to keep from smiling at him as he fought against rocking back and forth.
Annja had settled back into the camel’s awkward gait within a few minutes.
“How far out from the Bedouin camp do you think we are?” MacKenzie tried to take a drink from his canteen and ended up sloshing water on his shirt. He cursed and tried again, this time more successfully.
“Thirteen-point-two miles.” Annja had just checked the GPS on her notebook computer.
“How fast do these things travel?”
“Anywhere from twenty to thirty-five miles a day.”
“So we can look forward to six or seven hours in the saddle before we find your friends.”
Annja nodded.
MacKenzie glared at his mount. “I hate these things. I hate the way they walk. I hate the way they smell. I hate how stupid they are.”
“Beats walking.”
“Yeah, I know. I wish we could bring vehicles out here.”
“You could. Of course, those vehicles could break down and leave you stranded with a long walk home. And they’d definitely stir up more dust and make more noise than these camels will.” Annja grinned. “Camels have ninja mode.”
MacKenzie sighed. “But that doesn’t make them smell any better.”
Chapter 21
Two hours later, MacKenzie called a stop to rest and water the camels. The animals didn’t need much water to survive on, but he was sensible about taking care of them. He didn’t have any feelings for the pack animals. They were valuable tools he was using as part of the job he’d undertaken.
Annja sat cross-legged in the shade created by the camel she’d been riding. She’d watered the animal and it had hunkered down immediately. The shade wasn’t much because it was almost noon, but sitting on the mountainside helped.
A gentle wind stirred up small dust devils that whirled like dervishes across the dry land.
After consulting her notebook computer to get the GPS coordinates, Annja shut the device down and put it away. Charging the battery wasn’t going to be a problem because she’d also picked up a solar charger and a hand-crank charger in the marketplace. Technology was getting more and more available, stripping away some of the Old World feel of cities like Marrakech. The architecture of the cities was the same, but with satellite dishes outside a lot of the homes and buildings.
MacKenzie walked over, his boots crunching on the ground. He looked at her from under the wide brim of the hat he’d purchased. He wore his wraparound sunglasses.
“Did you water your camel?”
Annja nodded. “First thing.”
MacKenzie looked around for a moment and Annja instinctively knew that he didn’t like being out in so much open space. “How far are we from Mustafa now?”
“Seven-point-six miles.”
MacKenzie’s eyebrows lifted in surprise from behind the sunglasses. “We’re making better time than I’d thought.”
“And we’ve been across terrain we would have had to avoid even in Jeeps equipped with four-wheel drive.”
Taking a handkerchief from his back pocket, MacKenzie mopped the sweat from his neck. “We should catch up to Mustafa in another three, four hours.”
“Probably.”
MacKenzie returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “I’m going to have to think about that. We come up on them in the daytime and they see us, they might open fire without checking who we are.” He looked at her. “Plus, we’d have to keep you out of sight.”
The moment Mustafa saw her, the Bedouin chief would know something was amiss.
“Even if they don’t drop us, Mustafa could start killing hostages. We wouldn’t have any leverage at all.” MacKenzie frowned. “All we’ve got out here is surprise, and the only way to maintain that is to creep up on them in the middle of the night.”
“So we need to stop somewhere between here and there.”
“Yeah.” MacKenzie reached into his shirt pocket and took out a map of the region. “I need to find a place we can stay to wait for night that’s not far from the Bedouin camp.”
“There’s an old fort about six miles up. It’s practically on the way, maybe a quarter mile north of our heading.”
MacKenzie looked at her in surprise. “You’ve already been looking?”
“Yep.”
“Not bad for a television star.”
“Archaeologist first, then television star. And as an archaeologist, I’ve studied a lot of battlegrounds. I’ve learned a few things.”
“Like finding out places to cold camp.”
“Like that.”
MacKenzie grinned. “We can live with a quarter mile out of the way.” He started studying his map.
“The fort isn’t on that map. I found it on satellite imagery I downloaded of the area. I stored files on my computer.”
“Did you, now?” MacKenzie looked even more impressed. “Girl Scout when you were a kid?”
Annja shook her head. “I was raised by nuns. I’m better prepared than a Boy Scout.”
MacKenzie laughed and refolded the map. “All right. You lead the way to this fort you found.”
* * *
ANNJA RODE AT THE FRONT of the caravan after they remounted, with MacKenzie to her right and Yahya on her left. Both of them carried assault rifles, the buttstocks resting on their thighs.
The others on the mercenary team behind them carried their weapons the same way. Annja couldn’t help thinking that they looked like a military expedition. If they’d crossed paths with any of the small-trade caravans that still carried goods back and forth across the mountains, they would have scared them away.
Annja didn’t like the presence of the weapons. They reminded her of how much danger Smythe and the others were in.
Three hours later, she spotted the ruins of the old fort ahead of them. Three of the stone walls still stood, but the fourth lay loosely scattered inside and outside the original perimeter. When it had stood, the fort had held three rooms.
They settled the camels on the north side of the building against one of the walls and watered them again. Although they weren’t thirsty, the camels d
rank. They knew to take advantage of resources. This time MacKenzie also made sure the animals were fed.
With the camel behind her quietly chewing the food she’d given it, Annja studied the GPS readings on her notebook computer. They were only a mile and a quarter from the Bedouin campsite.
Satisfied, she powered the computer down and replaced it in her backpack.
MacKenzie walked over to her and nodded at the ground. “Mind if I sit?”
“Go ahead.” Annja took out a water bottle and drank. One of the biggest threats in desert country was dehydration. She reminded herself to keep sipping water at regular intervals.
Slipping the assault rifle off his shoulder, MacKenzie sat cross-legged. One of his knees cracked, but Annja knew it was from an old injury, not age.
“How far we are from Mustafa?”
“A little over a mile.”
“The moon’s going to be bright tonight.”
“Three-quarters. A new moon would have been better, but we didn’t get to pick the timing.”
MacKenzie shook his head. “Maybe I should stop being so surprised at what you know. And what you pay attention to.” He took out a trail bar, then offered it to Annja.
She shook her head and produced one of her own. She peeled the bar open and took a bite as he did the same.
“You pay attention to a lot.”
Annja looked back at him and felt an undercurrent of unease stirring. Despite what they’d been through, she couldn’t quite bring herself to trust MacKenzie. She often felt the same way around Garin, so the feeling wasn’t new to her.
“It’s part of my job.”
“Right. Archaeologist.”
Annja remained silent and took another sip of her water.
MacKenzie waved a hand at the fort. “What can you tell me about this place?”
Glancing over her shoulder, Annja studied the fort for a moment. “What do you want to know?”
“It was built in the middle of nowhere. Why would they do that?”
“How much do you know about Moroccan history?”
MacKenzie smiled at her. “Unless something really big happened, I don’t remember what I saw on the news the previous day.”
Annja leaned back against the camel. The beast shifted a little and blew out a short breath, popping its lips in displeasure, but didn’t object too much. “Morocco was a center of trade activity. Merchants formed caravans during the months when they had crops and goods to sell. Salt and gold flowed from North Africa to South Africa, then made its way into the Western world.”
“And slaves. They were sold, too.”
“Yes. Later. In the beginning it was salt and gold, and crops specific to this part of the world. Those caravans crossed incredible distances as the merchants took chances to become wealthy. A ship crossing the ocean wasn’t as vulnerable as those caravans because they carried warriors and fortifications with them.”
“Makes sense.” MacKenzie studied the structure with more interest. “So somebody came up with the idea of sticking warriors out here to protect those caravans.”
“Yeah.” Annja brushed a crumb off her shirt. “Probably guys you’d relate to better than you think despite all the centuries that have passed since this outpost was manned.”
MacKenzie pursed his lips. “How did these guys make their money?”
Annja warmed to the subject because of MacKenzie’s obvious interest. “Donations from kings and merchants who wanted safe passage for their goods. Some of them probably bought things and did some speculating on their own as they traveled back and forth. The same way you’re speculating on Mustafa’s gun collection.”
A wolfish smile curved MacKenzie’s lips.
“Some of them probably hired out to journey with the caravans to the seaports, then brought back things to sell locally to the other men stationed here. Maybe those warriors went north or south to small villages where they could sell those items for inflated prices.”
“A guy who pays attention to things could set himself up with a nice side business.”
“Exactly. That’s the way it’s always been. A market gets created. People have to ship goods there, and an enforcement arm comes into being out of necessity. The gravitation from enforcer to merchant for someone that’s clever was a natural thing.”
“It still is.” MacKenzie folded the wrapping from his trail bar and put it in his pocket. “I know a lot of guys who figured they were smarter than their bosses and decided to take over.” He shrugged. “It’s not always a good move. Just because you can pull a trigger doesn’t mean you have the smarts to run a business.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“I don’t think you have to take my word for it. I think there’s been a lot of that in history. I’m sure you could tick off stories without even working up a sweat.”
“Just sitting in this heat is working up a sweat.” She pulled at her shirt and let go, creating a momentary cooling breeze.
“Let’s say your friends are still alive and we can get them all away in one piece.”
That was a dark what-if. “I don’t want to think it’ll go any other way.”
“Then don’t. My team and me, we’re good at this. But what comes next for you? Are you going to keep chasing whatever it is you’re looking for on that scroll?”
Annja didn’t hesitate. “I am.”
“Do you know what it’s about yet?”
She studied him. “Do you mean, is it a treasure map?”
MacKenzie sat with his forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped together, and shrugged.
“As far as I know, this isn’t a treasure map.”
“But it could be.”
“Are you a betting man?”
He favored her with a lopsided grin. “Nature of the business, girl. Nothing I do is without risk, and when I risk, I’m all in.”
“I wouldn’t bet on this being a treasure map.”
“Then what are you betting on?”
Annja considered that for a moment. “I’m not betting. I’m curious. So we find this old guy—he’s got to have been in his eighties when he made the trip to Morocco, which was only then coming under Islamic control under Uqba ibn Nafi for the Umayyad caliphate. I can’t help wondering what he was doing out here. Why would he leave his home and come all this way to die on a trip to...where? More than that, why did someone kill him?”
“He was murdered?”
“I guess I didn’t tell you that.”
“No.”
Annja pointed to the back of her head. “Somebody crushed his skull.”
“To get what he had?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you know what he was carrying with him?”
Annja sighed. “I don’t. This man was a historian, not a politician or person of wealth. He was just an old man.”
MacKenzie was quiet for a moment. “He wasn’t just an old man to everybody. Whoever killed him? They thought he was a threat.” Grabbing his rifle, he used it to help push himself to his feet. He resettled his hat on his head. “When you get the story, let me know how it goes. I’m interested.”
“But not enough to go chasing after it with me?” Annja wasn’t sure if she felt relieved or anxious that MacKenzie would be leaving. She still didn’t understand why Habib ibn Thabit was interested in her or what they had found buried with Abdelilah Karam.
“I’m a risk taker, but only when I know there’s a potential payday involved.” MacKenzie looked over the surrounding mountainous terrain. “We’ve got a few hours before night. Try to get some rest. Once it gets dark, we’re going to be busy.” He trudged back to his team.
The young man, Yahya, had remained at a distance, watchful. Annja had wondered if he was related to MacKenzie, but gathered
that they weren’t. They looked after each other, though.
The sun soaked into her as she lay back against the camel. She’d long ago blocked out the animal’s stink. After a while, feeling warm and relaxed, she slept.
Chapter 22
Club Ravenswing
Berlin, Germany
Garin pulled the Melkus RS 2000 up to the curb in front of the gothic club in the Mitte district. Dozens of people wearing leather and rubber and all things vampire stood in line against the side of the three-story warehouse that housed Club Ravenswing.
A valet dressed in black trotted over to the sports car as the driver’s-side door gulled up and Garin stepped out.
“Keys, sir?” The valet held out his hand.
“No. The car is staying here.” Garin clicked the key fob and the door gulled back down.
“Sir, you can’t park here.” The valet tried to sound firm about that.
Garin stood straight, towering over the younger man. At six feet four inches tall and built broad, Garin was an imposing figure. He wore black pants, a black turtleneck and a black duster that dropped to midcalf, nicely concealing his weapons. His black eyes flashed.
“The car is staying here.” Garin ripped the valet’s identification card off his lapel. “Furthermore, if it’s not here when I get back—” he checked the card “—Joachim, then I’m going to hold you personally responsible. Do you understand?”
The valet didn’t hesitate. “Perfectly. I understand perfectly.”
“Good.” Garin took a five-hundred-euro note out of his coat pocket and shoved it into the valet’s hand.
The valet closed his hand reflexively.
Garin brushed by him and strode toward the club’s entrance. Two large men kept watch over the doors, which had been remodeled to look like folded bat wings. The handles looked like gargoyles that had popped out and were trying to climb from inside the doors. The men were dressed in black clothing with Security written on their chests in German and English.
One of them stepped forward. A baton shot out of his right hand but he kept it close to his leg. “You cannot go in.”