Ancient Danger

by Jo-Ann Carson

  She looked over at Dead Eyes, but he didn’t respond. His eyes, darker than the night, stared forward as if the leather back of the driver’s headrest had a message from Allah inscribed in it.

  Shifting her gaze back to the street, her mind ticked through her present list of concerns. She could ask the stinky gorilla some questions, like where the hell was he taking her, but he wouldn’t answer. He mostly grunted, and their last conversation had ended with him putting her in a choke hold and throwing her against a wall. The visceral memory of him squeezing her neck made her rub it. She’d thought he was going to kill her.

  Forty-five minutes later the taxi stopped. She’d expected a fancy hotel, but instead found herself walking up the steps of a charming Italian Villa, painted white, surrounded by an ornate concrete wall. It had three floors. A pair of bay windows on the first two floors and balconies on the third gave it an early twentieth century look. The door opened when she arrived at the steps.

  A maid greeted her dressed in a proper black uniform with white ruffled lace on top of the buttoned up neckline and at the end of long sleeves. She had a dour face, unusually long and lean that held little expression. No light reflected in her small, gray, eyes, and Sadie wondered if they’d ever known curiosity, let alone joy. A strong smell of soap emanated from her body. Sadie shuddered. It was as if the woman had stepped from the pages of a Dickens novel and would soon be scurrying back to tend to a gang of delinquent orphans.

  “Welcome to Mr. Al-Sharif’s residence. You are expected.” She held the door open wide and waved for Sadie to enter. “My name is Elizabeth. I will do everything I can to make your stay comfortable.”

  Comfortable? A polite smoke and mirrors comment. Although the maid had a tidy uniform and refined British accent, her intent to manage Sadie reminded her of her visit to Bakari’s home in Cairo. She would never feel comfortable in the home of an arms-dealer. “Does Bakari own this house?” she asked.

  “Yes,” the woman said as Sadie strode past her into the foyer. “It’s his home when he comes to London. Sometimes other members of his family stay here as well. The manor has five bedroom suites and a large entertainment area suitable for holding small parties.”

  Interesting. Why hadn’t the home, and its blueprints, been added to the Anubis file? Wonder how many things never made it on paper, when it came to Bakari. He’d been involved with the CIA for years, and she’d learned the hard way that what her bosses knew about him and what they told her were two different things. Had his thirst for power spread tentacles into the agency itself? Nothing like working for people who are in bed with arms dealers.

  Sadie scanned the entrance, which was the size of her own living room in New York. Its twelve-foot ceiling gave it an expansive feel. A thick Arabian rug with a red and black design covered most of the polished wooden floor. To her right, she could see through a large open doorway into a grand dining room large enough to seat twenty. An identical doorway on her left opened into what looked like a study or meeting room. Three chairs surrounded a large glass- topped desk that didn’t have anything on it. Directly in front of her, behind a round mahogany accent table was a grand Scarlett O’Hara staircase. To one side of it was a hallway. On the other side a small, open door.

  Sadie stepped towards the door, because it was an anomaly in this entrance where everything had been finished on a grand scale, and glimpsed a gourmet kitchen filled with shiny stainless-steel appliances, large enough to cater a small army.

  The white walls of the foyer, pristine and smooth, gave the place a clean look, but made Sadie grimace. No amount of white paint could white-wash Bakari’s evil deeds. What secrets lay behind these thick, Edwardian walls?

  Sadie turned and made direct eye-contact with the maid. “Elizabeth, how nice to meet you. Please show me to my room.”

  “Yes, madam. Follow me. I’ll have Rupert bring up your bag.”

  Rupert? That did it. Could this place be any more British? The scent of the long stem roses, sitting in a vase on the lobby table, followed her up the stairs. The maid took each step with care, as though she had a medical condition that impeded her movement. That made it less likely that she would be one of Bakari’s soldiers in disguise. The woman was too old to be one of his lovers. So what exactly was she? A proper maid to keep up appearances? Maybe, but unlikely. Bakari’s people all had their roles in his business.

  Stopping half-way up, Sadie turned around to look for Dead Eyes, but he’d vanished into the woodwork. He was damn good at that. The only thing he was better at was jumping out of it. When they neared the second-floor landing, she asked, “Is Mr. Al-Sharif home?”

  “No. He sends his regrets for not meeting you himself. He will be in sometime soon. A dinner has been planned for the two of you at seven.”

  “Seven?” It was already eight o’clock.

  “Tomorrow evening. If you are hungry I can bring you a meal from our kitchen. I know the cook has roast beef and squid in her fridge.”

  Squid? Seriously? “That’s all right. I ate on the plane.” And she had protein bars packed. On the second floor was a hallway with four doors. Sadie followed her to the first on the right. The maid held the door open and held it for her.

  Stepping into the guest room, was like jumping down the rabbit hole. While the house so far had seemed traditionally restored Edwardian, this room looked as if it had come straight from the tales of the Arabian Nights. It looked to be twelve feet by fourteen. The ceiling was lower on this floor, maybe ten feet. Carnal red drapes hung along the side walls. On the wall opposite her a large bay window looked over the street. An exquisite, plush Arabic rug in red tones covered the floor. No sign of white here.

  An unusually tall, king size bed encased with a red curtain, dominated the room, like an altar. The curtain had been pulled back, revealing pillows in rich prints covering the top half of a red bedspread. Silk. On the bedside table an enormous vase of flowers had been set and a card leaned on it.

  Against the wall to her right, a First World War-era wooden vanity rested. Against the left wall stood a writing desk, same vintage. The room had an old world, sexy feel to it, which she might have enjoyed if she was planning to meet a man other than Bakari.

  She turned to ask Elizabeth for a cup of tea, but the woman had vanished. A man appeared. He had to be Rupert, a rather emaciated, middle-aged gentleman in a uniform, with a well-cared for mustache. He placed her bag at the entrance of the room, nodded to her and left.

  After locking the door she hatched her plan. First, she’d sweep the room for bugs. She wouldn’t bother trying to be discreet about it. Bakari knew her background, and it was reasonable that she should be concerned about her privacy. Then she’d update Jeremiah. That done, she’d ask for tea in the dining room to get a better sense of the layout of the house and the number and purpose of the people in it. Later that night, when the lights went out and the servants went home, or at least to bed, she’d have a good look around.

  A nice, warm feeling filled her at the thought of uncovering Bakari’s secrets. She was closer now and the thrill of the chase coursed through her blood.

  Jeremiah had sent a new bug detector to her at the airport before she left New York. This one looked like a thumb drive. It flashed red when it detected listening devices and blue when it found cameras. Going over every inch of the space took thirty minutes. Two cameras focused on the bed, one listening device was on a land-line telephone with another underneath the desk. The bathroom appeared to be clean. She collected all the bugs and put them in the clear vase that held roses. The plopping sound as they hit the water gave her a warm rush. Oh yeah, it felt good to be a spook.

  The card leaning on the vase read: “Welcome… Bakari.”

  Not wanting to risk a phone call, she sent a text to Jeremiah on her company phone, which she had strapped to the inside of her thigh. It used the latest encryption software. “Arrived safely. Alone for the night. Will contact.” She pushed send. Checking her other mobile, she found she
had three messages from Mitchell and one from Sebastian. They’d have to wait.

  Pulling on the long, servant cord that hung beside the bed, she expected to hear a sound, but didn’t. She pulled it again. Two minutes later, she heard a discreet knock on her door.

  “Come in,” Sadie called out.

  Elizabeth opened the door and gave her the same weak smile she’d worn downstairs.

  “I’d like tea,” Sadie said with an arrogant attitude.

  “I can bring you a tray, if you’d like,” said the woman as if it were no trouble at all for her to run up and down the stairs.

  “I’d rather sit in the dining room, if that’s possible. I feel…” Sadie swept her arm around the room. “Claustrophobic here. To be honest I was hoping to meet the rest of the household as well.” She kept her tone haughty, like an aristocratic, bitch wannabe. The woman would really have no choice but to accept her request, whether she wanted to or not. Still, Sadie held her breath for a moment in anticipation.

  “Yes madam. As you wish. I’ll get the cook to put the kettle on.” She turned and walked out stiffly. An act? Arthritis?

  Sadie took a minute to freshen her lipstick and pull a brush through her hair. Inside her sleeve she slid a tiny camera, just in case something interesting turned up.

  26

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  On the way down to tea, Sadie reaffirmed that there were four doors on her floor, probably four bedrooms. The next floor would have the fifth. And what else? She’d figure that out later. Downstairs was for eating, entertainment and business. The layout was practical, which suited Bakari the business man.

  From the bottom of the stairs she looked towards his office, but she couldn’t see anything. The enormous wooden door had been closed. She turned towards the dining room.

  A proper English tea had been set up on the enormous dining-room table. On one end, a fine china plate, tea cup and saucer had been set on a white-linen tablecloth. In front of that sat a three-tiered china serving dish laden with small sandwiches, scones and sweets. The scene belonged in a foodie magazine.

  When she sat down, Elizabeth appeared. Sadie’s chest tightened. How did she appear so damn quickly, when she walked so slowly? Sadie hadn’t heard one footstep. Maybe the woman was part spy.

  The maid perched at her side. “Sugar or milk, madam?”

  “Let me pour.” She never liked the tradition of the English mother preparing her tea. Of course the intention was to indulge you, but it made her feel smothered and useless.

  The woman arched one heavily drawn black brow.

  “Elizabeth, I’d like to be alone. I’m American. I can take care of myself.” Again she used a haughty tone that the servant would not, could not, ignore.

  The maid nodded and vanished. Damn that woman was quick. This time Sadie caught her exiting a small door to the left that didn’t even look like a door. It looked more like a secret passage. Interesting.

  Sadie poured her tea, added a dash of milk and took a sip. Heavenly. A loose, black tea steeped perfectly. The malty flavor suggested Assam; the golden coppery taste, Kenya, a fruity touch, South India. She took another sip. Hmm. There was a piquant edge to it. Ceylon? Definitely Chinese for the oaky note. A lovely blend. The aroma alone revitalized her energy.

  On the bottom tier of the serving tray, were tiny sandwiches made with white bread cut into squares and triangles: cucumber and butter, smoked salmon and cream cheese, and egg salad. On the second tier a layer of scones said, “Eat me,” to her calorie deprived body. A small bowl of Devonshire cream sat among them and on the table several small crystal jars of jam: raspberry, blackberry and strawberry.

  Lots of food. Would anyone in the house try to poison her?

  On the top plate were tiny petit-fours. She sighed at the one topped with a sliced strawberry covered in dark chocolate. Two things she truly loved were chocolate and strawberries. It looked worthy of its calories.

  Sadie looked around. The wall facing the street opened onto a small stone terrace. The French doors were slightly ajar, letting in a cool autumn breeze. It stirred the sheer curtains. On each side of the French doors hung large paintings. To the left was a scene of wildflowers in the countryside, Impressionist in style. The other painting was of a vase of flowers and looked like a take-off of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, with sharp bold colors. Bakari may be the meanest son of a bitch on the planet, but he sure liked flowers.

  On the inside wall was an open doorway that led to a hall, and the hidden doorway through which Elizabeth had disappeared. The smell of cinnamon baking wafted in the air.

  On the other wall was a portrait of Bakari. His eyes, darker than the night dominated his face. His black hair had started graying at the temples when the portrait had been done, so it was probably fairly recent. The mole on his left cheek had been made fainter than in real life and his shoulders broader than she remembered, but otherwise the artist had captured the man. He looked regal and powerful; yet at the same time a sadness lingered at the corners of his mouth. Interesting company for high tea. She took another sip.

  Two closed circuit TV cameras, mounted in the corners of the ceiling focused on her. There’d been no attempt to hide them. She enjoyed the warmth of the tea sliding down her throat. Her shoulders ached from the long flight.

  In enemy territory one had to anticipate problems, but the odds of someone ambushing her at tea seemed remote. She took a deep breath and told herself to relax. For one thing Bakari’s people must know that he wanted her to be treated well, that he had amorous plans for her. For another, it would be too obvious to attack her here, and the culprit would probably lose his head.

  The food looked so good, she had to indulge. She popped the strawberry topped petite-four into her mouth, letting the flavors of fresh fruit, and chocolate mix on her palate, feeling the texture of the thin, crisp wafer inside.

  Maybe being Bakari’s mistress wouldn’t be all that bad. She’d just have to learn to stomach his heinous crimes. With a smile she poured more tea in her cup.

  She eyed a cucumber sandwich next. How many calories could a vegetable have? Her professional model mind went into calculation. One teaspoon of butter thirty-five calories; two small pieces of bread twenty; the hidden teaspoon of mayonnaise thirty-five; and the cucumber, a big fat zero. Total ninety calories for two bites of yumminess. What the hell. She picked it up. She shouldn’t, but you only live once.

  A loud gong startled her as she munched. She checked her watch: nine o’clock. The sound could have stirred the dead. She expected Elizabeth to rush to the door, but a minute later Dead Eyes appeared. He wore a plain, white, long-sleeved, cotton shirt rolled up to his elbows, which hung loose over black cargo pants. His black, leather shoulder holster was in place. He’d also have a knife strapped to his ankle. He looked at a video screen mounted beside the door and grunted. A second man appeared with a Glock pointed at the door. He moved to stand to the left.

  The gong sounded again, and before its echo finished the door had been opened to reveal a tiny young woman dressed in an Express Mail uniform holding two packages: a cardboard cylinder and a small box wrapped in brown paper. The box was about eight by eleven on top, and two inches deep. It looked like it could contain a bundle of photocopy paper.

  The woman appeared to be about twenty. Her long blond hair had been pulled up into a ponytail and stuffed into the company blue and white, ball hat with its logo on the front. Her face looked gaunt, like she ate too many cucumbers. She looked at Dead-Eyes and took a step back. Smart woman.

  He didn’t say anything at all. The force of his stare threatened well enough. The young woman handed him a device to sign, which he did, and then she gave him the packages.

  Sadie swallowed her sandwich and took another sip of tea. She took a compact out of her purse and applied lipstick, so she could watch the action at the door through the tiny mirror without being obvious.

  After the door closed with a solid thunk, the soldier-guy took the packages a
nd followed Dead Eyes to the office door. Dead Eyes looked around, then used a key to gain entry. The two disappeared inside. An old fashioned key lock. She could handle that.

  The scones begged to be eaten, so she indulged in one, adding blackberry jam. She drank another cup of tea.

  Tonight, when the house settled, she’d have a good look at Bakari’s office. The thought warmed her more than the tea.

  27

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As Sadie put down her napkin, the gong rang again, only this time it sounded softer. Clearly someone monitored the front door and called the appropriate person when needed. This time Elizabeth appeared. Not a hair out of place. Sadie poured herself the dregs from the tea pot and opened her compact.

  She had never met the man who strode in, but she’d read about him in Bakari’s dossier. Khalid Badru, an Amsterdamer, rumored to be the illegitimate son of Bakari. He’d recently been taken in by the family. His young wiry body moved with an unsettled energy as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to be here. He talked in quiet tones with the maid, then stopped mid-sentence, turned and stared at Sadie. He’d made her.

  ***

  Khalid turned towards the source of the eyes he felt on his skin. A woman seated in the dining room watched him through her make-up mirror. He brushed past the maid and strode towards her.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  The woman closed her mirror case before he made it to her side. She looked up at him with cat-like, moss-green eyes that beckoned. He took a second breath.

  “Good afternoon,” she replied. American accent.

  “My name is Khalid Badru. This is my father’s home.”