The Third Caliph

by Alex Archer

  Smythe peered over Annja’s shoulder. “Same source material, don’t you think?”

  “We can’t ignore the possibility.”

  “What are you talking about?” Hamez snapped.

  Annja pointed at the illustration of the angel in the book. “This looks like the same angel that was in the other book.”

  “They were father and son. Perhaps the father taught the son.”

  “And perhaps there is a source document.”

  “You are grasping at straws.”

  “When artists sketch the statue of David, it tends to look the way Michelangelo sculpted it.” Annja stared at the man. “Whoever your boss is, he seems to be pretty concerned about what’s going on. Is he the kind of boss that would want every stone overturned or not?”

  Hamez grimaced. “What do you need?”

  “To know if either of these two artists left any journals or personal information about their work.” Annja returned to the desk to find Daoudi once more. “Sorry. Last question, I think.”

  “Of course.” The old librarian still acted friendly, but Annja suspected she was wearing out her welcome.

  “What can you tell me about the family of these two artists?”

  “I am afraid I probably cannot help you with that.” Daoudi hesitated. “Unless the family contributed the artists’ personal things for the collection here.” He consulted the computer and smiled. “You are in luck. I have both an address and a telephone number.”

  “Great.”

  “May I call for you?” Daoudi reached for the phone. “I cannot just give out that information without permission.”

  “Of course. Please.”

  Daoudi called and the mechanical response of a recording picked up after a few rings.

  “Yes, this is Professor Daoudi at the university.” There was no reason to mention another university. Al-Karaouine was the one any resident of the city would immediately think of. “I would like to speak—” He stopped and grinned at Annja. “Someone is there, after all.”

  The conversation continued in Darija and in a dialect Annja couldn’t follow, but when they’d finished speaking, Daoudi turned to her, beaming.

  “It seems that Iskandar ibn Silahdar would be delighted to see you. He is, as my wife is, a fan of your television show.”

  Chapter 30

  Garin stepped off the private plane and accepted the keys to the Land Rover that a well-dressed young man held out for him.

  “Welcome to Fes, Mr. Braden. I hope you enjoy your stay in our city.”

  “Thank you.” Garin unlocked the door and swung inside.

  “Your agency said you would not be needing a guide through the city.”

  Garin started the engine. “I won’t. It’s not my first time here.”

  “I see.” The young man looked anxious. Probably because he was seeing bonus money driving away.

  Dropping the transmission into gear, Garin gunned the engine. His sat phone rang for attention and he pulled it out of his jacket.

  “Yes?”

  “Annja Creed is leaving the university.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not know, Mr. Braden. You asked us to keep at a discreet distance.”

  “Is she still with Hamez?”

  “Yes. And his men. Quite a few men, it would appear. We should have gotten more men ourselves. It is not too late to add them.”

  “No.” Garin stepped harder on the accelerator. With a larger group, Hamez’s team would have a better chance of seeing them. “We stay small. We stay invisible. Until we act.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you prepared?”

  “Of course.” His hired man gave Garin the address where to meet him. Garin knew where it was. He had, after all, been in Fes many times.

  Like this time, he had been here to kill someone.

  * * *

  “WE ARE NOT ALONE.” MacKenzie sat inside a small teahouse across from Al-Karaouine. Only a few customers were at the other tables, but business was brisk this morning as many students got their orders to go.

  Tracking Annja Creed to the university was a no-brainer. She was an archaeologist searching for missing information. It stood to reason she would turn up there. MacKenzie and the surviving members of his team had only arrived an hour ago, but they hadn’t had to look too hard before they’d recognized Hamez’s men positioned in a loose perimeter around the school.

  Yahya sat on the other side of the table eating his pastries. He’d developed a sweet tooth for the halwa dyal makina, chocolate-dipped cookies.

  “What do you mean?” Sophie said over the earwig.

  “I’ve just spotted a British team in the area.” MacKenzie watched the MI-6 agent he’d recognized from past encounters.

  “Who?”

  “Rallison.” MacKenzie pointed the small camcorder on the table toward the man. A satellite link had been hidden within the camera’s housing to transmit images or straight video for short periods of time.

  Felix Rallison looked like a rugby player, short and powerfully built, but he was a man who could be easily overlooked in a crowd. He was dark, possibly biracial, with cropped hair and a short, full beard. A scar bisected his left eyebrow and trailed down his cheek.

  “We see him. Impressive scar.”

  MacKenzie grinned. “I gave it to him.”

  “He will know you if he sees you.”

  “Yeah. I nearly took his eye, and he almost cost me a kidney. He’s a dangerous guy.”

  Yahya lifted a hand, made a pistol and pulled the trigger. He blew imaginary smoke from the imaginary barrel. “Every man dies. You taught me that.”

  “Not being able to hide in plain sight is a problem for you.” Sophie sounded distracted.

  “The flip side is that I recognized Rallison and I know the Brits are here. We could have walked in blind to whatever’s coming.” MacKenzie sipped his tea. “By the way, what is coming? Why are the Brits here?”

  “They want your real target as much as we do.”

  MacKenzie watched Rallison sitting next to a building as if he were only taking advantage of the shade there. A careful scan of the surrounding neighborhood told MacKenzie that MI-6 had at least seven agents working the scene, and more would doubtlessly be posted around the university campus.

  “Rallison and his people have the numbers to make a snatch. Or we could throw in with them.”

  “This is one the boys at MI-6 won’t want to share. That’s not acceptable.”

  MacKenzie patted his pocket. “We still have the key.”

  “But we don’t know how the key fits into this. Or even if it does. And that could be something we want to keep off the table.”

  “No luck with the key, then?”

  “Not yet. We’re still searching.”

  Across the street, Rallison’s head came up. It was just enough to tip MacKenzie off. Tracking Rallison’s line of sight, MacKenzie spotted Annja Creed walking out of the university surrounded by Thabit’s men.

  MacKenzie stood and felt the weight of his pistol resting comfortably on his hip under his jacket. “I’ve got to move.”

  “Understood. Be advised that our technological presence there is limited.”

  That was because the city wasn’t filled with cameras the way so many metropolitan areas were these days. MacKenzie didn’t worry about that. Africa had been a theater of operations for him for some time. He knew how to handle third-world situations with limited intel. Rallison, as far as MacKenzie knew, was used to working with high-tech backup. He’d be out of his element.

  That proved true almost immediately when Rallison and his people dropped into close cover on Creed. It wouldn’t take long for Hamez to spot the tails and take action.

&
nbsp; MacKenzie planned to be in position to capitalize on that mistake.

  * * *

  ONLY BLOCKS FROM THE university, Garin swept the street corners at the irregular intersection and spotted the slim-built young Moroccan standing at the corner just short of the confluence of streets. He carried a duffel bag.

  It wasn’t who he’d been expecting.

  Signaling at the last minute, Garin cut off a taxi jockeying for position, receiving an instant blare of honking reproach. Garin unlocked the door and the young man got in. As soon as the door closed, Garin got under way again.

  The young man pulled on his seat belt and sat quietly. He was in his early twenties, hard bodied, with muscular, calloused hands. His face was slightly rounded, his beard cut short and his eyes almost dark enough to look black. He wore jeans and an X-Men T-shirt, allowing him to be mistaken for a local or a tourist.

  “Did you get everything?”

  In answer, the guy unzipped the duffel bag and revealed the gleaming, oily black surfaces of the weapons inside. There was a small selection of pistols and three assault rifles with the butts telescoped in to shrink their size.

  “Which would you prefer?”

  “Something big.” Garin navigated around vendors and pedestrians as he rolled through the streets. The GPS held him on course to the university.

  “Desert Eagle .50 caliber. Hard to acquire. But for you, the very best.” He took the huge pistol out and offered the weapon to Garin.

  “Loaded?”

  “Of course.”

  Garin took the pistol and shoved it under his thigh. He placed the extra magazines for the weapon in his pockets. “What’s your name?”

  “Qurtubi.”

  Garin watched how efficiently the young man readied the weapons while keeping them all out of sight of the street traffic. “That’s not your name.”

  “It is.”

  “That was the name of the man I used to work with. The one who agreed to meet me here.”

  The young man smiled. “Qurtubi was not my father’s name, either, Mr. Braden.”

  “Family business?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I hope you’re as good as your father.”

  “I will never be as good as my father, but it will take the most discerning eye to see that difference.” Qurtubi stared through the windshield. “And the four of us are going to have to be very good.”

  “Why?”

  “Your target has picked up two other teams that are pursuing her.”

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “One team belongs to the CIA, as you suggested. The other is British. They have received information from local assets who owe my family favors.”

  Garin continued driving, thinking furiously.

  “Our goal here is to save the woman?” Qurtubi asked as calmly as though they were discussing the weather.

  “Yes.”

  “And the others?”

  “If they get in the way, we kill them.” Garin looked at the other man. “Is that amenable?”

  “Of course.” Qurtubi glanced at Garin curiously. “Did you take your father’s name, as well, Mr. Braden?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because my father spoke as if he expected me to be meeting with a much...more distinguished man.”

  “You mean an older man.” Garin laughed.

  “Yes.”

  “I did take my father’s name.” That was the easiest explanation.

  “Then I hope you are as good as my father said your father was.”

  “Not quite.” Garin glanced at his comrade in arms. “But most people wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

  * * *

  IN THE BACK OF THE SUV again, Annja flipped through the images she’d stored on her tablet PC. Once more, she and Smythe had been split up. Frustrated, she returned the device to her backpack and relaxed into the seat, determined to get some rest before things got busy again. Hamez wouldn’t kill them yet, and she was curious about the mystery of Abdelilah Karam.

  She had almost dropped off to sleep despite the vehicle’s careering through the narrow streets when it came to an abrupt stop. She blinked her eyes open and rubbed them with her palms.

  The SUV caravan had pulled to a stop in a narrow alley. Doorways opened into courtyards off the alley on either side. But the doors were all closed. The few pedestrians quickly gave ground to the large vehicles.

  With the SUV parked against the wall on her side, Annja couldn’t open the door. She slid across the seat and got out on the other side. Fatigue made her feet feel heavy. She automatically reached for her backpack and shrugged into it, resenting the weight.

  One of the doorways on her left opened and an Arabic man in his early thirties peered out at her. “Miss Annja Creed?”

  Annja put on a smile. If the meeting went well, no one would get hurt. She didn’t want this family injured—or worse—on her account. “I am. Mr. Silahdar?”

  “Please. Call me Iskandar. I feel as though I know you.”

  Annja walked toward him and Hamez matched her step for step. David Smythe and two other guards followed. Seeing all the people converging on him, Hamez and his guards looking so somber, Iskandar drew back.

  “It’s okay.” Annja tried a smile and wished that it didn’t feel so false. “They’re with me.”

  Skepticism lifted Iskandar’s eyebrows. “These are your friends?”

  Yeah, I wouldn’t believe it, either. Annja kept smiling. “More like, they’re...associates.” That was the smallest lie she could tell, and it was huge.

  “All right.” Reluctantly, Iskandar pulled the door open. “I really was not expecting so many people. The man at the university implied that you might be the only one to come calling.”

  Feeling guilty at bringing trouble to the man’s doorstep, Annja stepped into the small courtyard. Flowers, fruit trees and, in the center, a small fountain, which filled the courtyard with the sound of running water.

  Iskandar looked nervously at Hamez and the other two men. “The man at the library—”

  “Professor Daoudi, yes.”

  “—he said you were interested in documents my family might have retained from my grandfather and great-grandfather.”

  “Yes. I know that the university has some of their materials, but I was hoping there might be more.”

  Iskandar ran a nervous hand through his black hair. “You are putting together a museum show?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what are you doing with these materials?”

  “Research for a project.” Annja felt Hamez tensing beside her.

  “What project?”

  Annja didn’t blame the man for asking questions. She would have been asking questions, too. But Hamez didn’t care for the delay. His voice was sharp when he spoke. “Do you have materials such as Miss Creed suggests?”

  Iskandar hesitated again, then nodded. Maybe he truly wanted to help Annja, or maybe he was afraid of Hamez and his thugs.

  “There are some materials that my family has been holding on to. You are fortunate to have come here. My two older brothers—”

  Hamez strode forward and took Iskandar by one arm. “Let us go get those materials. Time is an issue.”

  Iskandar had to skip to keep up. “Of course. No problem.”

  Annja started to follow.

  Hamez fixed her with his gaze. “Stay there.” His eyes flicked to the two guards. “Make sure she does.”

  Annja folded her arms. These guys are so not my friends.

  Chapter 31

  In a few minutes, Iskandar and Hamez returned. Iskandar carried a large box and looked apologetic as he sat everything in front of Annja. She hunkered down
with him and began to go through books and journals.

  Iskandar hesitated, then said in a low voice, “I thought you would have better-mannered associates.”

  “I apologize for that. You got me on a bad day.”

  The journals and moleskine notebooks were filled with illustrations and sketches of works in progress at the time, or of places the two artists had visited. But there was also a bundle of letters tied to an old book. The letters had been addressed to Wassaf ibn Fadlan, the older artist. Most of them dated back to the 1920s.

  “My father thought they belonged in a museum, but my mother—she was the daughter of Ata ibn Wassaf—insisted they were family possessions and should be honored.”

  Some of Iskandar’s fear had subsided as his interest in Annja increased.

  Hamez nudged the box with the toe of his shoe. “So a cardboard box was the best you could do for these honorable things?”

  Iskandar’s face flushed with color. “I got these two years ago. After my mother died. I did not know what to do with them. My brothers did not want them.”

  Annja flipped through the book that had been tied to the letters. “They’re in good shape.”

  “I did not ask for this.” He looked pointedly over his shoulder at Hamez. “I did not ask for any of this.”

  “Have you studied these?” Annja’s heart sped up a little when she saw the title page of the journal. The peacock angel soared over a desert landscape where a woman sat on a camel and faced an army of swordsmen.

  “Yes. Many times.” Iskandar sidled around to Annja as Hamez peered over their shoulders. “My mother was my great-grandfather’s favorite. She loved to draw and to paint. While he was alive, he taught her. She always said this was my great-grandfather’s special book.”

  “What made it special?” Annja turned the page and found another drawing of the woman on the camel, this one much closer and more detailed.

  “My great-grandfather was a man of peace. He believed in the future of Islam, and that we needed to all once more learn to live in peace.” Iskandar pointed to the page. “This drawing is of the war that split the Muslim people.”