The Hand of The Prophet (Adventures of a spymaster Book 4)

by James Ward

  Grundstrom fired three more carefully sighted shots, missing one and dropping two. It would now be four against fourteen. The first of the enemy would be in range to fire at any moment.

  The rotor was turning faster now, but the helicopter would not be ready to fly for another minute or two.

  Steck and Liss cocked their rifles and waited.

  CHAPTER 14

  Chris Taylor sat at the big desk usually reserved for the boss at the Al Kafajy Trading Company office in Amman, Jordan. He was logged in to the PC network catching up on correspondence ignored during his brief stay in Paris. He had already conducted a brief meeting with the staff about coming events at the Amman office. They were busy sprucing up the place for the arrival of Mister Al Kafajy on Saturday. There would be no time off for anyone, excepting Friday prayers, until the boss left Amman.

  He phoned his Amman girlfriend, Aliyah and made a date for dinner at her place. As he clicked off, he noticed an arriving email from the boss’ right hand man, Ahmed. “Call on secure line” it said.

  Chris locked the office door, picked up the telephone at the desk and dialed several long combinations of numbers from memory. Ahmed’s whisper answered.

  Chris skipped the customary niceties. “What do you have for me?”

  “The gentleman we both know has learned that a photo has been taken of our prize,” said Ahmed. “He wondered if you knew.”

  Chris was taken by surprise. “I did not know,” he replied. “Where was this photo obtained?”

  “It was obtained by one of our acquaintances in Yemen.”

  “Do you have it?” Chris tried to remain outwardly calm.

  “The gentleman has a facsimile sent just now from Yemen. He asks if he should be concerned.”

  Chris tried to fathom the information. He wanted to ask who the bloody hell had such a thing, but needed to control his demeanor.

  At length, Ahmed asked, “Are you still on the line?”

  “Yes, I’m still on the line. Do you know where the photo originated?” He knew Ahmed was toying with him.

  After a period of silence, Ahmed decided he had strung Chris out quite enough. “It was presented to an archaeologist who has sought our prize for many years, by some Americans keen to recover it. One of our friends took a picture of the picture.”

  “Please thank the gentleman for this information,” Chris said in even tones. “Assure him that I will use the information wisely. Tell him that I will contact him as soon as I have located the source of this minor issue, and that I will deal with it.” Then he added, “How do I contact our friend in Yemen?”

  “The gentleman will see that you get that information,” replied Ahmed. “May the results be pleasing to Allah,” he stated. Ahmed clicked off.

  Chris replaced the receiver on its cradle. He noticed his heart thumping and he felt quite warm. He sat for a few minutes until the rush cleared. No use revealing his state of alarm to the office staff. Moments later, the phone buzzed and the red light on its keyboard flashed, indicating a secure incoming call. The boss told him that the source was a young archaeologist named Nancy Kinnear. He supplied the dial-up sequence for her satphone.

  “Do you have instructions?” asked Chris.

  “Some other friends of ours are responding. They will insure that none of the visitors leave Yemen until our transaction is complete. Nevertheless, contact Miss Kinnear. She may have other information of use to you.”

  “Customers are already arriving in Amman, Christian,” the boss warned. “We must take steps to assure they won’t be disappointed.”

  __________

  Ryall Morgan was at his desk, going over the terrorist activity postings on his secure link to Home Land Security. The HLS briefing was available daily to those with a need to know. JUMP Team was high on that list. An item that caught his attention was the purposely random movement of several known Islamic terrorist leaders or their top assistants, all at once. The consensus of several agencies seemed be that they were converging on Amman, Jordan. This posting was linked to an intercepted message from a known Al Qaeda wannabe group in Indonesia to a brother cell in Somalia. The message was coined in the usual code, purporting to be merchant traffic, but when analyzed seemed to speak about an upcoming “event” in Amman.

  Morgan scratched a few notes about this posting. He decided to ask the agency’s bureau chief in Jordan what was known about an intended meeting. He would write up the results to present to Mort Lindsley and Susan Deet at two-thirty pm.

  Morgan noticed that it was about noon, which meant about sundown in Yemen. He thought about Steck and Liss, probably sitting down to an Arab feast under the clear desert sky. He wondered what they had learned today. He tried to ring up the secure satphone that Randy Pullin’s group had supplied to Steck. No answer. Morgan made a mental note to try again in an hour.

  _________

  Hugh Coles, formerly Paul Roche, sat on his favorite chair poolside, sipping strong coffee and chewing on a breakfast bun. He was getting comfortable in the assumption that he was safe in his new persona. Besides himself, there were only two people in the world who knew how to contact Paul Roche, and they would do it through a three tiered non-traceable contact chain, only in an emergency. He had worked for years setting this up, and at last felt free of the need to keep watch every waking moment for trouble.

  He fumbled through a Mexico City newspaper, following the soccer news and browsing the previous day’s results. The sun was high and the day had become quite warm, even at the usually temperate altitude of his house in the Mexican hills. Opting to read the balance of his paper later on, he stood, dropped off the bathrobe that covered his bathing suit clad torso and plunged into the newly filled crystal clear pool. Life was good.

  At that moment, Hugh Coles had no way of knowing that tomorrow’s newspaper would contain an innocent looking advert, one that would end his respite and threaten to suck him once again into the wicked vortex of his former life.

  _________

  Susan Deet entered the conference room next to Mort Lindsley’s office at ten ‘til twopm. She greeted the other members of the JUMP team, mostly reference librarians and technicians. She had accomplished the task given her to track down Greg Liss’ former girlfriend and had prepared some notes to use in today’s meeting. The news would not be good for the lovelorn Mister Liss. At least she didn’t have to face him with it today, since he was running around the desert with Bob Steck, she thought.

  The meeting began precisely at two pm, when Ryall Morgan arrived. Lindsley recounted the information they had accumulated thus far about the missing crate. “We know it’s on a ship bound for Durban. We will intercept it in Santiago. We’ve lost Paul Roche temporarily, but Susie will find him eventually.” He paused to smile at her. “Steck and Liss are gettin’ the background on that figurine, and we’ve gathered enough evidence to arrest Randy Pullin any time we want to. I’d say that’s not bad for only a few days work.” Satisfied that he had brought them up to date, he added, “What do you two have for today’s meeting?”

  Susan deferred to the senior Ryall Morgan. “I’ve got two items to report. First, I have not heard from Steck and Liss. There may be some trouble with the satellite phone Steck is carrying. It’s dark in Yemen. They’ve had a whole day with the man they wanted to de-brief. I would guess we’ll hear from them shortly.” As he said that, he gestured to the satphone he had just placed on the table.

  Second, there is some peculiar movement among some of the most influential bad guys. There could be some sort of meeting or even a terrorist operation coming down soon in Amman.”

  “What does that have to do with our operation?” Asked Lindsley, who had leaned back in his chair, slumping. He was peering at Morgan over the top of half-glasses.

  “I just have a hunch that it may be connected to The Hand of Mohammed,” replied Morgan. “Greg reported to us a while ago that there was some sort of archaeological meeting in Amman in a few days. He said the old professor
plans to attend.”

  “I remember, Ryall. Again, what does that have to do with our mission?” Lindsley seemed perturbed.

  “We know that the archaeological community has interest in The Hand, and that every Islamic fundamentalist on earth would love to have the thing, even if just to gain credibility. I just feel there could be a connection.”

  “I see,” Lindsley mused. “Okay, let’s keep tracking this Amman meeting, or operation, or whatever it is. Your guys gonna do it?” He meant CIA.

  “Yes, I’m working it with our Jordanian bureau chief. I spoke with him at noontime today. He’ll give us a report in the morning.”

  Lindsley paused, making a few notes. At length, he looked up. “Suzie?”

  “I found some news about Greg’s Canadian girlfriend,” she began. “I used a big favor with a friend at CSIS.” She shuffled some paper, sat up straighter and announced, “Did you know those CSIS buggers conduct ops in the States? I thought they were our buddies.”

  “Just as we do in Canada, when we have no alternative,” quipped Morgan.

  “Anyhow, Carole is one of their field agents, apparently one of the best. She is currently on a mission in Idaho, stalking some kind of traffickers, maybe drugs but I could not confirm that. She went missing two days ago, and the folks at CSIS are getting antsy about it. According to my source, she always checks in right on time. They’re worried that something may have happened to her in the States, which of course could get embarrassing since they were not collaborating with us about her mission.”

  A thought trail was forming in Ryall Morgan’s mind. It was not clear enough yet to speak about. He wondered if the movement of the crate to that end of Canada might be connected to Carole’s assignment.

  “Any luck finding Roche?” Lindsley sounded distracted, as if he was having the same thought that troubled Morgan.

  “None yet, except I’m really convinced he is in Mexico,” replied Susan. “I’m working on it,” she added.

  Morgan picked up the satphone and tried to contact Steck again. No luck.

  After handling some mundane business for a few minutes, Lindsley seemed ready to adjourn the conference. Suddenly, Morgan’s satphone buzzed.

  “Steck?” said Morgan after clicking the receive button.

  “Ryall Morgan?” The voice was Randy Pullin’s.

  “This is Morgan. What do you have for me?” Morgan gestured to the others and hit the mute button. “It’s Pullin,” he told the others then he hit the speaker button.

  “There’s some sort of cock-up going on at the landing site in Yemen,” drawled Colonel Randy. Our helicopter pilot triggered a pre-programmed help message with a code that indicates people trouble, not mechanical issues.”

  “What else do you know?” Morgan’s face was tense.

  “All we know is there are unfriendlies and shots have been fired. There’s another helicopter with heavy reinforcements on the way to them as we speak.”

  “When will the relief arrive?”

  “About one hour.” Randy sounded on edge.

  “Keep us informed. I want a status every thirty minutes. Are there any other assets available in the vicinity?” Morgan’s tone was elevated, the words coming fast.

  “I’m working on it,” snapped Randy, “Out!”

  Morgan clicked the phone to standby.

  “No one goes home until we have this under control,” barked Lindsley. “We have to get them some help.” The team spent the next thirty tension filled minutes confirming the fact that there was none available.

  CHAPTER 15

  At the first ping of a bullet off the side of the helicopter, the pilot lifted off. Grundstrom, Steck and Liss were too busy firing from their positions of cover to notice that the machine was airborne without them on board. Baby face clambered over to Grundstrom’s position, bringing another AK-47 for his superior to use in place of the M40. Grundstrom gave him a thumb’s up, but left the AK at his side. He needed the more accurate M40 for the moment.

  In minutes the insurgents had taken cover and were rotating fire to cover their advance. Two of them continued to fire at the helicopter, which was a hundred yards off the deck. Steck felt the prop wash and looked up, startled to see the thing hovering over him. He started to shout at Grundstrom, but then realized that the helicopter was not leaving without them, rather was preparing to attack.

  The pilot actuated a pod mounted machine gun. It deployed through the opening in the underbelly of the airframe where the access panel had been removed by baby face. The pilot slipped the aircraft from side to side to make him somewhat less of a sitting duck. He then spun it so the pod faced the enemy. Three short bursts erupted from the twelve barrels of the pod gun as the helicopter raked across the enemy’s position from a hard angle. Several of the shooters fell in that hail of 40 caliber bullets. Grundstrom had dropped two more and Steck thought he had tagged one or two.

  Steck scurried to another pile of rocks, flanking the enemy’s position. He counted four bodies that were not moving and two that were writhing in pain, too badly injured to be effective. That made it four against eight. He shouted to Greg, who replied he was okay. Baby face and Grundstrom kept firing, which indicated they were all right as well. So far, so good, they signaled to one another.

  The helicopter swept around to the opposite side of the fray, and fired again. As well as Steck could figure at least two more of the enemy dropped.

  As the helicopter swung back to take a position away from the fight, it suddenly wobbled. The snapping sound of the rotor seemed strangely off key. Realizing his rotor was nicked, the pilot had no choice but to set the machine down real hard just behind the main tent. Steck heard the crunch of metal to rock. The rotor slowed. Chances were the helicopter was no longer flight worthy.

  “Fall Back!” Grundstrom shouted as he slipped back towards the main tent. Greg Liss followed, taking cover from rock to rock. Baby face took off on the run across a short open area between him and the tent. Seeing a trail of bullets following the man, Steck stayed put and provided covering fire.

  Through the melee, no one had noticed that Professor Wigglesworth was still standing frozen by fear near the entrance to the main tent. Greg was the first to discover it, so he ran full tilt to the old man, pushing him back into the tent. Greg felt a sting of heat in his backside as he entered the tent. The bullet passed clear through his flesh, leaving a trail of bloody ooze into his jeans.

  “I’m hit!” Greg shouted. He was still able to shepherd the old man to a place of relative safety behind some file drawers.

  Grundstrom and baby face had taken up new positions, firing to draw the enemy’s fire away from Steck, who was now badly exposed and nearly cut off from the others by the enemy’s advance.

  Suddenly, a figure loomed over the rock that Steck was using for cover. The AK-47 in the enemy’s hands was swinging toward Steck. He instinctively rolled to one side and came up firing. Riddled with bullets from Steck’s weapon, the enemy fell at his feet. He heard sucking breath and choking, indicating that he had inflicted at least one chest wound. Steck poked the torso then rolled it over. A flash of red hair in the fading light made his eyes widen. He had just killed Nancy Kinnear.

  “Fall back Bob!” shouted Grundstrom. “We have you covered.”

  “In a minute!” replied Steck. He searched the body of Kinnear, finding a photo of The Hand of the Prophet in her shirt. He muttered to himself. Searching further, he found the second camera she had apparently hidden in her pocket, a slim micro camera that must have been used to shoot before the Casio had been given over as a decoy. He wondered who else might have a copy of that photo. He whistled to Grundstrom then ran for refuge as covering fire was laid down for him.

  The men took stock and set up positions from which they could hold off the enemy for a while. The last bit of daylight faded to black desert night, as they settled in to keep a stand-off.

  The pilot was not hurt, but the Helicopter was trash. That meant they could no
t get out of the area, much less out of Yemen. Daylight would bring new perils. Meanwhile, they just hunkered down, exchanging occasional shots with their enemies. They reckoned that there were now only three or four fighters left to fire at them. Hearing some radio traffic on what they assumed to be cell phone walkie-talkies, they realized that their enemy would have reinforcements by dawn, if not before.

  Greg’s wound had somehow stopped bleeding, but he was in lots of discomfort. The professor was very quiet. Steck figured he was just so shocked by the events of the last half-hour that he would remain apoplectic for a while. Steck and Grunstrom began plotting how they might take out the rest of their enemy during the night. That would be crucial to their survival, even if it only bought them a few more hours of life.

  Methodically, Grundstrom and Steck questioned Wigglesworth to determine how many others were scattered around the camp. They created a written list and then found each of the folks on it. Most had been cowering, unarmed. One Arab man, the one who had served lunch, had crept up on an insurgent and slit his throat.

  After the non-combatants had all been accounted for, Steck and Grundstrom made a plan. They had four healthy armed men. As well as they could determine, the enemy had a maximum of four, maybe only three able to fight. Their last known positions, confirmed by the stealthy old Arab assassin were clustered at a position roughly sixty yards out in front of the main tent. Baby face produced a box of white flares and a flare gun from the helicopter. They decided to flank two men to an eight o’clock position and two to four o’clock about thirty yards out, then Greg, who was able to crawl but not to sit, would fire two flares. The old Arab would throw a rock straight out towards the enemy just before the flares were fired. Hopefully, they could elicit some movement from the enemy who would then be caught in a cross-fire.

  “If that doesn’t move them, what do we do next?” the pilot asked.