"Bring me a pistol and take one yourself. Be sure they're loaded. Bring the phone too." She came back and he told her to be ready to shoot anyone who walked through the door. The phone was an old flip version, grimy and scratched. Wondering if it would work, he entered 01 – the country code for the USA – and dialed a number he'd committed to memory long ago. It was evening there, but he hoped she'd get the message.
He prayed for a connection as there were numerous clicks and pauses. His face lit up as he heard the ringing. He didn't expect her to answer even if she was still at her desk. God only knew where they were, and a foreign cellphone number would go to voicemail, but it was better than nothing.
"Cynthia," he said quietly, "tell Harry Becky Kohl and I have been kidnapped by Tariq's men. I think we're in Syria, but I don't know where." He explained what had happened with Tariq and how he'd overpowered the guard. "Please send help fast.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
While Brian stood guard, Becky peeked out a window next to the back door. She told him that there was no means of escaping that way. It opened into a sandy yard enclosed by decaying fence posts and a strand or two of barbed wire. Getting out would be easy, but there was no place to go. They would be completely exposed. They were trapped.
Brian racked his brain for ideas, but he was out of time. There was a noise outside and they heard another vehicle pull up to the house and voices. Someone was talking to the guards.
"Get ready," he whispered, motioning her to join him behind the front door. "If there's more than one, I'll take the first. Can you shoot a pistol?"
"Are you kidding?" she replied. "I spent my two years in the Israeli army like everyone else. I can handle myself."
"That's good." He figured she'd be better with a gun than he was. "Stay focused."
The door opened and Tariq walked in alone. He closed it, saw two revolvers aimed at him, glanced at the dead body on the floor and smirked, "What have you done? All I need do is shout and you'll have three to deal with. You may kill me, but they'll kill you. I'd wager neither of you knows much about guns. I doubt you have ever held one. Put them down, I'll forgive your little indiscretion and we'll get on with things."
He took a step in their direction and Brian said, "I'll kill you if you move another inch! I may not make it out of here, but I'll make damned sure you don't either. And I grew up in Texas, just so you know. Shooting guns was a part of my childhood. Don't underestimate me or you're a dead man. Sit down in that chair."
Becky kept the gun trained on Tariq while Brian ran in the kitchen, returning with something that appeared to be a staple for terrorists in this country – a roll of duct tape. He told Tariq to wrap it around one of his wrists tightly and then pass it around the chair and his body. After three times around, the man was sufficiently constrained for Brian to step behind him and finish the job. The terrorist was tightly bound to the chair.
It was then that Tariq made his move. He yelled something in Arabic and Brian swung his pistol, hitting him solidly in the head. He slumped forward in the chair and the front door flew open. Only one guard at a time could pass through the narrow doorway. The first one burst in, saw Tariq and looked around in surprise. Becky shot him in the face and the second guard jumped over his body and raised his weapon. Brian fired at the second man's torso, but the shot went wide, striking him in the left forearm. Still gripping the rifle, the man turned to the door. Becky fired two shots into his back. He collapsed into the sandy street just outside.
Brian ran out, grabbed the man's weapon and made sure both guards were dead. They waited hesitantly to see if anyone else would respond to the gunfire, but there was silence. The village really was deserted.
"You handled yourself well," he told her. "That military training came in handy. My shot went wild. I haven't held many guns in my lifetime, to be honest."
She started to reply, but he saw a panic-stricken look on her face as she fell into a dead faint.
He dialed Cynthia's number again. This time it was answered on the first ring.
"Mr. Sadler?" He didn't recognize the voice.
"Who is this?'
"I'm with the CIA. We've monitored Ms. Beal's phone since your last call. Are you still in danger?"
"I'm in Syria. We captured Tariq."
The man paused for a second. "What? You've captured him? How?"
He quickly explained and said everything was quiet, but it couldn't last. They needed help immediately and were told that an extraction team was already in the air.
"How do they know where we are?"
"We pinged you from the phone's GPS when you called before. You're in an abandoned village in the Syrian Desert a hundred miles from Damascus. There's an ISIS training camp twenty miles from your location. That's the biggest danger for you and for our inbound chopper."
"Tell them to come quickly." He watched closely, aiming his pistol as Tariq raised his head and shook it. He saw one of his guards lying on the floor and the other just outside, both dead.
"You have no idea what I'm going to do to you," he hissed. "It would be best to kill yourselves now. It's a far better fate than what's in store for you. You're trapped here, miles from civilization in an area I control. The only people within a hundred miles are my people."
Brian pulled the other guard's body inside and swept the sand to cover his blood. He left the door ajar. The sun was directly overhead now and the temperature was soaring. He found more water bottles in the kitchen and knelt, cradling Becky's head with his arm. Her eyelids fluttered and she took a sip. She asked if he'd help her stand, and took his arms, steadying herself on wobbly legs. She held the back of a chair to steady herself and proclaimed she was better. She finished the bottle of water.
"Give me water," Tariq demanded.
"Go to hell," Brian answered. "I wish I had killed you already, but I didn't because you're going to stand trial for what you've done. It'll be fair, and that's the one thing I'm disappointed about. You should have the same fate you've dealt so many innocent people. You should have to stand by an open pit and beg for your life as an executioner prepares to cut off your head with a scimitar. But in a free society things don't work that way. And that's unfortunate."
"All your banter is entertaining," Tariq said coldly, "but aren't you getting ahead of yourselves? It will take more than two amateurs to stop me." He jumped from the chair and grabbed Becky, pulling her body in front of his as a shield and twisting her wrist until she dropped the pistol. Brian held his weapon on them, but there was no chance to fire without hitting her.
"Check your prisoner's pockets next time, you piece of dung," he chortled, displaying an eight-inch knife he'd taken from his back pocket and used to cut the tape. Now he held it tightly against Becky's neck. "Are you ready to go to hell, lady?"
"Shoot him, Brian! Shoot!"
The next seconds were a blur. Brian heard a noisy truck approaching. It wasn't the helicopter, so it had to be Tariq's men. Tariq heard it too. He smiled, shifted his body slightly and turned toward the door. Brian seized the opportunity. His last shot had missed its mark; if this one did too, she would die. He had to do something; this was his only chance.
He fired and Becky uttered a gasping, shrill scream as she fell to the ground, blood pouring from a gash in her throat.
Oh, my God! I killed her!
Brian struggled to maintain his composure. Everything seemed surreal, as though he were watching a scene from a movie. He saw himself running across the room as Tariq collapsed on top of her.
As the truck pulled up, he could hear shouts in Arabic. In seconds, they'd be inside and he would be heavily outnumbered. He checked the cylinder – there were four shells left. Becky's gun was on the other side of the room; he'd have to cross in front of the open door to get it. It was a chance he'd have to take. He lunged for the gun.
He’d made it halfway across the room when an enormous blast shook the house, knocking him off his feet. He lay on the floor, dimly aware that his e
ardrums hurt like hell and that he wasn’t holding the gun any more. Everything went blurry as he tried and failed to understand what was happening. Now there was a piercing white light invading his brain, followed by peace and stillness.
CHAPTER THIRTY
"Mr. Sadler! Mr. Sadler, wake up!"
Brian tried to open his eyes, but it was hard to do. The pain in his ears was excruciating and it felt as if someone was beating a hammer inside his head. He was lying on a rough concrete floor and some man's face was hovering just above his. His eyes widened in fear as he recalled the enormous explosion he'd heard. Then he saw a United States flag sewn onto the man's cap. With a huge sigh, he relaxed.
"Where ... where am I?" he slurred, finding it difficult to put thoughts and words together.
"You're in Syria, sir. I'm Marine Staff Sergeant Todd Jenkins. I'm a medic and we've come to rescue you."
"What about Becky?"
"My partner's attending to her now, sir. She has a knife wound to the throat. There's a lot of blood, but it's not that deep. It looks like she'll survive."
Thank God. "How ..."
"We were inbound in a chopper and we saw a truck racing across the desert. You couldn't miss it; it threw out a cloud of dust for a mile behind it. We followed it in and realized they were heading for the same place we were. They got here a second ahead of us, but things worked out fine. Those ragheads almost made it to the front door before our Hellfire missile took out the truck and them too. No survivors among the bad guys."
"Is Tariq dead?"
"No, sir. It appears he'll live. I reported that to my commanding officer back in ... well, I can't tell you where we came from. But I'm wasting time. My major's orders were to patch you in to President Harrison as soon as you woke up. I guess I'll catch hell for that when this is all over!"
"Not if I can help it," Brian replied sincerely. "You guys saved my life. Becky's too."
As the soldier left the room, Brian sat up and slid on his butt to Becky's side. He held her hand as a medic applied ointment and Steri-Strips to protect the wound until she could be transported to a hospital. He had given her an injection to deaden the pain, and she was woozy. She smiled weakly and gave his hand a tiny squeeze.
The sergeant returned with another man. "Mr. Sadler, this is Major Fulton. Let me patch you through, sir." He spoke on his radio for a moment and then everyone in the room fell silent as they heard the familiar voice of the president of the United States crackling through the mobile unit.
"Brian, are you all right?"
"I’m a little woozy, that’s all. Thank God for the Marines. They got here just in time. Literally just in time." His body trembled as the realization of how close to death he and Becky had come finally sank in.
"I hear you shot Tariq but left him alive. I couldn't have asked for more. We need to have a talk with him."
I didn't "leave him alive," Brian confessed to himself. I had intended to shoot him in the head, but I missed.
"There's someone on the line who wants to talk to you," Harry revealed. Brian heard a few clicks as another line was added.
"Brian! Brian," Nicole choked. "I'm so glad you're all right!"
Now the emotions became too much. He sobbed. His chest ached and he gasped for breath as he tried to speak. "Nicole," he managed at last, "I'm so sorry. I'm just so sorry."
"Don't waste words, sweetie. Don't worry – just come home soon."
He promised – a real promise this time – and said they'd talk as soon as they could.
Harry came back on the line. "Thanks to you the threat from Tariq's been eliminated. Nicole, you can go back home. As far as you're concerned, Brian, you owe her more than you can ever repay. She's been a real trouper and you owe her big time. She's your biggest supporter and you can't keep on doing this to her."
Nicole cried, Brian cried, and after a moment the president of the United States was crying too. The hardened soldiers in the room averted their eyes. This was a deeply personal moment and each of them wished he was someplace other than this.
Brian fought through the pulsating fury of the worst headache he’d ever had. "I'm a reformed man," he joked weakly.
Half-jokingly, Nicole said, "Don't say words you might have to eat later. Just come home and I'll forgive you."
As they signed off, Brian heard a thumping sound that was growing louder and louder. Eyes wide with fear, he looked to the major for reassurance.
"That would be the Israelis," the officer advised. "We got a little head start on them. When we reached the border, the Syrians demanded we turn back and we told them – very politely, of course – to go to hell. After the damage we inflicted on them earlier, their air force couldn't have responded if it tried. Shigon told the Syrian president we and his troops were coming in to rescue our people and ordered him to back off. Personally, I like this new prime minister. He doesn't mince words, and thanks to him no one stopped us from getting here."
The major spoke by radio to his Israeli counterpart in one of the two choppers that were now hovering overhead. The Marines loaded Brian, Becky and Tariq onto theirs and everyone headed back to Israel.
_____
Brian's shot had been a lucky one, narrowly missing Becky's body as Tariq had moved slightly when he heard his men arrive. Brian hit him in the side, puncturing his kidney and spleen. He would recover to stand trial. At this point it was merely a matter of where – Israel or the United States. Until the details could be worked out, he was imprisoned under heavy guard in the hospital bay aboard the USS Nimitz in the Mediterranean Sea, just twelve miles off the coast of Haifa.
The chopper carrying Brian and Becky went directly to a hospital in Jerusalem. They were the only ones on their floor – all other patients had been moved. Eight Israeli soldiers with automatic rifles stood guard at the elevators and in the corridors. Two more were outside each patient's door.
With no external injuries, Brian’s hospitalization was for observation. The concussive effect of the Hellfire missile strike on the Arabs still caused him intermittent pain in his head and ears, but a low dose of sedatives had allowed him to sleep.
Brian walked down the hallway to Becky’s room. She lay in her bed, wearing a brace to immobilize her neck and tubes ran from her arm to an IV tree.
"Can you talk?" he asked.
She smiled, nodded from her bed and thanked him for saving her life. Her voice was soft and raspy, but she said that speaking didn’t hurt thanks to localized anesthetics the doctor had injected around her wound.
"I shouldn't have taken the shot," he said. "I could have killed you."
"Thank God you did. He was a second away from slitting my throat," she said, struggling a little with the words. "I prayed that God would guide your hand. I knew He would let your aim be sure and true and keep that murdering terrorist alive to stand trial."
"What about the cave? Do you think the relics are safe?" He knew anything could have happened in the thirty-six hours since their kidnapping.
"My deputy minister stopped by earlier," she answered. "I told him how to get to the cave and instructed him to post round-the-clock security. I've also sent a team from the Antiquities Theft Prevention Unit to be on the scene. They're hybrids – part archaeologist and part cop. The doctor says if things go well, we will both be discharged tomorrow. What do you say we make a trip to see for ourselves if the treasure is still there?"
"Are you up to it?" he asked. "I don't think ..."
"You don't understand. I'm going, period. I'm simply asking if you want to come too. I don't care if I go in an ambulance and I don't care that it's the Sabbath. I must go back. Everything must be there – it simply must. I choose to believe that God has protected my people's treasures."
"I know exactly how you feel," Brian replied. "Once you've seen the cavern, it's as though you can't wait to see it again. Count me in!"
In the afternoon, the embassy sent over a new iPhone Brian had ordered from the Apple Store and he spoke to Nicole for al
most an hour. She sounded calm and relaxed for the first time since she'd left Israel. He explained that he and the antiquities director were heading to the cave again tomorrow and – presuming things were still in place – he was going to petition her to allow a documentary about the hidden treasures of Isaiah. There was lots of security at the cave, he added, and he promised to stay at the embassy compound in Tel Aviv until his work was finished in Israel. For once, she agreed with everything. With Tariq in custody, the worst was over and, barring a new outbreak of hostilities, her husband could wrap things up and come home at last.
Around six that evening a representative from the consulate in Jerusalem called Brian to report that a FedEx package intended for him had arrived. A courier dropped it off at the hospital an hour later.
As he opened the thick padded envelope, he noticed it had been sent from a FedEx office in Athens, but it had no sender's name. There were two things inside. Wrapped in a cloth was a thin plate made of solid gold, about ten inches square and filled on both sides with tiny words. The ones on its obverse appeared to be in a different language from those on the back. It reminded him of the Rosetta Stone – a stela found in 1799 that was inscribed in three languages, which was the key to deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphs.
The parcel also contained a small envelope with two things inside. One was a letter written in Arabic, a language Brian recognized but couldn't read. The other was a legal document written in English. On its last page he saw Abdel's signature, attestations and a seal. He was barely able to contain his emotions as he read it.
Brian still didn't know if he should have trusted Abdel. Regardless, he wondered what intense grief Abdel must have experienced as he signed a notarized affidavit transferring ownership of his gallery and all its contents to Brian. Abdel had been an enigma – a self-proclaimed member of al Qaeda, a prominent merchant and Brian's colleague. He also had been a friend – maybe. Whatever he was, this document was a testimonial that he wasn't coming back. For whatever reason, he had given away the thing that was most important to him.
Temple: The Prophecy of the Hidden Treasure (Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries Book 7) Page 19