by Glen Craney
Cas knew it was just a matter of time before he had to come clean. The sooner he finished toying with these apes and arranged to meet with the superior Saudi sahibs, the faster he could track down the man who had paid to have the Black Stone stolen—and now, apparently, was trying to have him killed. “I’m looking for a businessman from the United States named Seth Cohanim. He flew into this airport earlier today.”
“Why are you going to so much trouble to find this Mr. Cohanim in Saudi Arabia? It would seem you could conduct your business with an American capitalist far easier at home, no?”
“He has something that belongs to me.”
The interrogator nodded to one of his officers, who opened a laptop and punched in a series of keystrokes. The officer slid the laptop along the table to the interrogator to show him the results of the search. “Again, Mr. Fielding, you have lied to us,” the interrogator said. “No passenger named Cohanim has entered Saudi Arabia within the past week.”
Cas lost his smile. Was this scumbag Cohanim traveling under an alias? Maybe the guy knew he was being followed and was covering his tracks.
The interrogator crushed his cigarette in an ashtray. “My patience is limited.”
Cornered, Cas finally admitted, “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m working for your government.”
“For whom in our government?”
“The royal Saud family.”
The officer chuckled at the claim, all the more absurd coming as it did from such an unkempt, unshaven, unbalanced American.
“Call your own ambassador in Washington. Tell him that Cas Fielding needs to speak to him immediately. He’ll clear all of this up.”
The interrogator traded a skeptical glance with his fellow officers. “It is six o’clock at night in Washington. Mr. Bin Sultan is a very busy man. We do not bother him about mundane Customs issues, especially after working hours—”
“I have information he wants.”
The interrogator raised an eyebrow. “What kind of information?”
“That I can’t tell you. Not to be hostile or belligerent or anything, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy.” Cas continued staring at his interrogator, aware that unwavering eyes helped prove he wasn’t lying. He also thought about switching to fluent Arabic, but the last thing he needed was a red flag about his past in this country. “Look, here’s the thing—if I am telling the truth, and you don’t make that call, your ass’ll get fried like a falafel.”
The interrogator weighed the possible consequences. Finally, he walked to a phone on the wall and punched in multiple numbers. “This is the Chief of Security for King Fhalid Airport. May I speak to Ambassador Abdallah?” He waited to be put through, until: “Sir, I am sorry for the imposition. But I have a man detained here who claims to work for you. … A Mr. Cas Fielding. … Yes. Yes, I see. I am truly sorry.” The interrogator’s face hardened as he hung up. “The Ambassador says he knows no one by that name.”
“That lying, double-crossing sonofabitch!”
The interrogator signaled for his officers to lift Cas from the chair.
Cas tried to fight them off. “Wait! I can prove it!”
The interrogator held his men at bay. “You can prove that Ambassador Abdallah is lying? This I would like to see.”
“The Kaaba at Mecca has been covered for a week.”
“For cleaning. Everyone knows that. But what does that have to do with you?”
Cas knew the confidentiality agreement he had signed for the recovery job would be useless in a Saudi detention facility. So, he told them the truth. “The Black Stone was stolen a few days ago. Abdallah came to my government asking for assistance in returning it. I work for the private company that your government employed—off the books—to work this mission. Abdallah obviously claims he doesn’t know anything about me because he can’t reveal the arrangement. Y’know, the whole plausible-deniability bit.”
Eyes narrowing, the interrogator leaned closer and repeated the charge, “You say the Black Stone is no longer in Mecca?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. And this shady Cohanim character who just happens to be running around your country right now may have had something to do with its theft.”
The interrogator walked to the television monitor and turned it on, scanning the channels until finding the Saudi broadcast of CNN in English. A live video of Mecca at the beginnings of Hajj was being shown on the screen.
Cas took a step closer to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. Tens of thousands of Muslim pilgrims were circling the Kaaba—and the ancient black cube was uncovered. After the picture shifted angles several times, he could see the silver oval frame. He lurched closer, rubbing his bleary lids.
The Stone fragments—all seven of them—were clearly visible.
“This is a trick! That has to be an old video clip.”
“The cleaning of the Kaaba was completed last night,” the interrogator said. “The shrine was reopened to the public this morning. So, as you can see, Mr. Fielding, the sacred Stone has never left our possession. And why would it?”
Cas stood slack-jawed. Had this Cohanim character undercut him by selling the seven fragments back to the Saudi government? That must have been why the Texan traveled here last night. But why did Cohanim go to all the trouble to pilfer the damn Stone if only to return it a few days later? The questions kept hammering his brain, until, all at once, the chilly realization hit him: He had been left dangling in the middle of the Arabian desert without a net—just as his son, Farid, had been abandoned here. No one in the State Department or Saudi government had any reason now to confirm his story, let alone admit his existence.
Seth Cohanim—whoever the hell that mystery mope was—had just screwed him out of two million dollars.
Two officers dragged him toward the door. He tried to resist, but they battered him with their fists.
The interrogator clasped Cas’s chin. “Don’t make us use the straitjacket.”
“Straitjacket?”
“You appear to be suffering from a severe delusional illness. Our law requires foreign aliens who exhibit mental instability must be detained for seventy-two hours and evaluated by a physician. You’ll be taken to the Ministry of Health’s psychiatric hospital.”
“I’m saner than the whole lot of you Wahabi-brainwashed stooges!”
“You are psychotic. Nothing you just told us has any basis in reality.”
Cas’s face turned purple with rage. “You wanna hear something real? I’ll tell you something real, you shoe-headed fool! Damn your seventh grandfather! You foreskin-faced barbarians have held my son in prison for twenty years!”
The interrogator froze at the door. He turned back slowly. “Your son. … I see. Now you claim to have a son here in the Kingdom.” He shook his head with apparent regret. “We will get you the medical help that your inadequate health-care system could not offer you in the United States.”
Cas struggled against the restraint. “He’s in Ruwais! You can check it.”
The interrogator hesitated, no doubt pondering the possibility that the transfer to the mental facility would proceed with less red tape if he demonstrated the severity of Cas’s delusions. He nodded for one of his officers to make a call to test the claim. “Once more, Mr. Fielding, we will humor you. What is your son’s name?”
“Farid. He goes by the Arabic name of Farid Al-Harbi.”
The minion left the room to go check the new information. Several excruciating minutes later, he returned and whispered to the interrogator.
The interrogator nodded, as if having expected the report. “Mr. Fielding, you have no son imprisoned in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.”
Cas exploded. “Lying bastards!”
“A man named Farid Al-Harbi died two days ago in the prison that you named. According to records there, his last testament said he had no family still living.”
Cas was too stunned to speak.
“It is all too clear what has happened he
re,” the interrogator said. “You read of this prisoner’s unfortunate death in the newspapers and used him for your scheme. Only a profoundly disturbed individual would try to adopt a recently deceased stranger and convince himself that such a man had been his son.” He gazed at Cas with keen curiosity. “To what purpose, Mr. Fielding? Have you no sense of decency?”
Cas staggered, blinded by grief and confusion. Farid is dead? The officers helped him back to the metal chair. His eyes ballooned with tears, and his throat tightened with inconsolable anguish. He had never in his life felt so profoundly alone. Two days ago? What could have happened in … he struggled for breath, for clarity.
Wait, two days ago. That was around the same time those goons got the Stone back in Dallas. Had Cohanim struck a secret deal with the Saudis to return the Stone? The cold, hard realization pummeled him like a haymaker to the face: If all of that were true, the Saudis would clearly have had no incentive for keeping Farid alive.
That sonofabitch Cohanim caused Farid’s death!
All of these years, Farid had been alive. And now, he had been taken from him a second time. Bastards! This time they’re gonna pay!
“Mr. Fielding,” the interrogator said, trying to rouse him from his collapse.
Cas sat with his head hung over his knees, mumbling incoherently.
The interrogator ordered his officers, “Keep him isolated until the psychiatric team arrives.”
LOCKED ALONE IN THE INTERROGATION room, Cas sat staring blankly at the monitor showing thousands of pilgrims reaching desperately to touch the powerful Kaaba icon. Now that the fragments of the Black Stone had been returned, he knew Cohanim would be covering his tracks, and fast. The conniving Texan was probably booked on the next flight back to the States.
His fury white hot, he stood and paced, until he spotted a list of numbers for the airport taped next to a paging phone on the wall. It was a long shot, but he picked up the receiver and dialed the number for assistance.
When a woman’s voice answered, he spoke first in Arabic, repeating the words in English to be certain they were understood. “Could you please page the representative from Lightgiver Technologies? I need to get an urgent message to him. When he shows up, tell him that his doctor says his diagnosis has come in. He has only a few days left to live. … Yes, that’s correct. To live. His doctor says it’s not medically prudent for him to board an airplane.” He hung up, and banged on the door.
A customs officer stuck his head inside.
Cas doubled over on the floor in a fetal position. “I need a doctor! Now!”
“What is wrong?”
“My Demerol! I’m gonna go into seizures if I don’t get my medication!”
The officer spoke into his transmitter. “Send the medic to Room Seventeen.”
Moments later, a male nurse arrived with a medical bag. Finding Cas convulsing, the medic dug a finger into his mouth and tried to pry his tongue loose to force him to breath.
“He said something about needing Demerol,” the Customs officer said.
The medic pulled a syringe from his bag, tore open the sterile packaging, and stabbed the needle into the rubber top of a small glass vial.
The officer dropped to his knees and pushed against Cas’s shoulders as the medic lowered the needle toward his patient’s neck. Cas grabbed the medic’s hand and drove the syringe into the officer’s biceps. The officer tried to rise, but the sedative was already coursing through his veins, beginning to render him helpless. Cas yanked the gun from the officer’s holster and pointed it at the frightened medic. “Load up another syringe.”
The medic was too terrified to move. “Please do not harm me, I beg you.”
“Do it! Now!”
With shaking hands, the medic prepared another dose and handed it over.
Cas pushed it back on the medic. “I’m a big proponent of self-medication.”
The medic drove the needle into his own arm. In seconds, he became drowsy, and then flopped half-conscious onto the sleeping officer.
Cas leapt to his feet and cracked the door. The officers were gone. He snuck through the anteroom and out through a rear door that led into the airport terminal. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed, he walked briskly to the information desk in the central hub and said, “I think I was just paged. Did I hear correctly? Lightgiver Technologies?”
The female information officer looked perplexed. Speaking immaculate English, she said, “Another gentleman answered that page a few minutes ago.”
“Really? He must have been one of my fellow sales agents. Did he happen to mention where he was heading today?”
“I think he said Tel Aviv.”
Tel Aviv? Why the hell would Texas Hold ‘Em being going to Israel? He swallowed back his surprise. “Ah, yes, that would be Bob Hendricks. Gosh, I’d love to say hello to ol’ Bob.” He smiled flirtatiously at the helpful, and quite ravishing, woman. “Say, you wouldn’t mind telling me, what gate the Tel Aviv flight leaves from?”
Returning the smile, the woman pointed to a hall connecting two terminals. “Gate Twenty-One.”
Before she could ask him about his health, Cas pressed a fluttering hand to his chest, smiling to indicate that he felt just fine except for the patter of excitement she gave him. He blew her a kiss and took off on a determined walk, glancing around for armed security as he hurried past the gates.
Alarms went off throughout the airport. Within seconds, officers armed with machine guns fanned across the terminals.
Cas ducked into a novelty shop and scanned the shelves. He grabbed a pair of sunglasses and a red-and-white checkered souvenir keffiyeh, slapped a handful of riyals on the glass counter, donned the accessories and sauntered out of the store. As he moved toward the gate, he heard an announcement that the Tel Aviv flight was in final boarding.
One of the men in line wore a Stetson hat and snakeskin boots. Cohanim, you slimy snake. That message about impending death apparently hadn’t fazed the Texan from risking the flight.
Cas quickly calculated his options. If he confronted him here, all hell would break loose. And besides, he didn’t have time with the entire airport now lousy with alerted security. He scanned the other passengers queuing up along the wall, waiting to be called to board. He chose his target, a sleepy-eyed codger who looked like a refugee from an Elderhostel tour.
Shedding his Arab headgear, he walked over and bumped into the man, sending him staggering against the wall. Catching him before he could fall, he whispered to his ear, “So sorry. That’s what I get for trying to look at my ticket and walk at the same time. Are you okay?”
The old timer recovered his balance. “No problem, mate. Happens to me all the time.”
“Y’know,” Cas said, mimicking his new acquaintance's Australian accent. “I’m not looking forward to another ten hours on a plane. But I guess it could be worse.”
The geezer looked like he might keel over at any moment. “How so?”
“I guess we could have been that poor chap who lost his wallet.”
The old Aussie blinked, confused. “Which chap?”
“You didn’t hear that announcement just now? Yeah, they found it at the security gate. They’re holding it for him in the main terminal.”
The Aussie felt for his pocket and turned white. “What was his name?”
Cas thought for a second as the line moved forward. “Uh, let me think. … Aiden something. I think it was Aiden Rhys … Rice … something like that.”
“Crikey!”
“That’s not you, is it?” Cas asked in mock horror.
“Bloody hell!” In a panic, the elderly Aussie looked at the dwindling line. “I’m bollixed!”
Cas aimed him down the concourse and gave him a supporting tap on the shoulder. “You go push the tit, mate! I’ll tell the dollies to hold the bird until you get back, if that’s all right with you.”
Nodding gratefully, the creaky fellow staggered down the terminal in quest of h
is wallet.
Cas turned toward the El Al counter and fell in line as the last passenger to board. He reached the gate attendant and handed her the boarding pass that he had just pilfered from the Aussie’s jacket. “Life is beautiful. Don’t you think, love?”
The cute attendant smiled as she scanned the pass and handed it back to him. “Thank you, Mr. Rhys. I wish all the passengers were as cheery as you.”
“I try to bring a little sunshine to everyone I meet.” Starting down the ramp, Cas turned back and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. He slipped it into the ticket attendant’s hand and whispered, “I know it’s not usually done, but I’d be in your debt if you’d ask one of the flight attendants to deliver a double Scotch on the rocks to the gent in the cowboy hat in First Class.”
“Is he a friend?”
“Oh, he’s a very dear friend. But I don’t want him to know I’m on the flight. I’d like to surprise him. Just have her tell him that somebody who thinks about him a lot has more of these surprises in store for him in Tel Aviv.”
When she nodded with a smile, he glanced over her shoulder. Dozens of security officers were running across the main concourse with weapons drawn. As the skyway door closed, he waved goodbye to the attendant. Hearing the door lock, his fake smile was replaced by a grim look of determination to make a certain passenger on board to pay dearly for his son’s death.
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Columbia University, Manhattan
HALF AN HOUR AFTER SENDING that bumbling burglar on his scamper across Riverside Drive, Marly hurried down Fairchild Hall’s lighted corridors while looking around each corner to make sure no one was lurking in wait. She unlocked the door to her office and slipped inside, hoping the goons who kept breaking into her apartment weren’t stupid enough to risk being nabbed by campus security.
The room was frigid, so she cranked up the clanking radiator. She removed her coat and rubber shoes and put on a fresh pot of coffee, then eased into her chair and tried to calm down. She had finally managed to convince the guy that she had never heard of the Black Stone of Mecca. But the lowlife who had hired the even lower form of lowlife might be another story. Lacking any better plan, she had decided to run across campus through a driving snowstorm just to be closer to the university police patrols.