by Rob Jones
“Perhaps later,” the Englishwoman said coolly. “When you’re all paying attention.”
Hawke rolled his eyes. He didn’t need to be told what had happened – he already knew just by knowing Cairo Sloane. They had obviously come under attack by the same men who had fired at them in the river, and Cairo had gone above and beyond to fight them off and save the day. It was a habit of hers and he was glad she was on his side.
“So if we need to get out of here in a hurry,” Lea said. “Where are we going?”
“No idea, darling,” Scarlet said. “The boy here and Alex are nerding their way through various ancient clues and think it might be something to do with the Pillars of Hercules. I think not letting Kruger slip the net might have been a better…” without warning she stopped talking and pulled her gun, firing a shot into the gravel between Ryan’s legs. A cloud of rock dust flew into the air and Ryan nearly jumped out of his skin.
“What the fuck was that for, you nutter?” he yelled.
“Cobra, boy – about to crawl up your trousers and bite your nuts.”
He spun around and searched for the offending creature. “You’re kidding?”
“No, I’m not kidding. I shot him to spare him the disappointment of what he might find.”
“Oh, very droll,” Ryan replied.
“I have a sneaking admiration for snakes you see, and I think letting him endure the inside of your trousers only to discover the contents of your Y-fronts would constitute animal cruelty.”
They all fell about laughing, including after a few seconds even Ryan, and turned to march back up the track on their way to the chopper. Back on board the mood soon sobered when they realized they were once again well behind Dirk Kruger and had only the vaguest reference to the Pillars of Hercules to point them on their way. Alex had contacted them again to explain there was no runway where they were headed so they decided to take the chopper north. As they flew away from the canyon, Hawke’s mind began to focus on how he was going to end Kruger’s quest for Atlantis if their luck didn’t change.
*
It looked like some early snow was more than likely judging by the look of that sky, and the wind had already started to strip a lot of the leaves off the ash trees outside Davis Faulkner’s office in Langley, Virginia. Such was life, he considered mildly. A circle, from birth to death to rebirth. It went around and around treating some a lot better than others. But idle metaphysical speculation would have to wait because he had his orders.
He had thought carefully about the Oracle’s words since their last conversation, and he knew his loyalty was being weighed for quality like gold with an unknown provenance. He couldn’t let the Oracle down. It simply wasn’t done, but then he had sworn loyalty to something else – what was it called now? Ah yes, he remembered – the United States of America.
It was impossible to divide loyalty. That was obvious and the truth was any indecision he felt was his conscience playing tricks on him. He knew where his heart belonged and it was with the greater force. His work as Director of the CIA was child’s play compared with the Oracle’s divine vocation. In his mind there was no question about who he served.
He snatched the cell phone off his desk and spun around in his leather swivel chair as he waited for the other end to pick up.
“Yes, sir?”
Faulkner smiled. This particular number was only ever called by him so there was no need to waste time with introductions and how-d’ya-dos. He lit his cigar and blew a vast cloud of silvery smoke into the confines of his plush corner office. “Agent Kelly I have some wetwork to put your way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I need a small package put together in the Caribbean.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re looking at maybe a couple of Apaches and a small ground force of, say, a dozen specialists. It’s a covert invasion of a small private island down there. Called Elysium. Leave the infrastructure if possible but kill anyone and everyone you see. I’ll send more details later but start putting it together right now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Davis Faulkner hung up and recalled one of Aesop’s fables that his mother used to read to him when he was a child. The Fisherman used to play his pipes by the water to catch the fish, but none appeared. One day he threw his net into the water and hauled it to shore full of fish, and then he played his pipes again. This time they danced and hopped in the net. Faulkner knew that he was dancing to the Oracle’s tune, but the promise he held in his hand was irresistible.
He glanced outside as he slipped his phone in his pocket. Yes, certainly snow was a possibility.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
They crossed the High Atlas Range and flew over the sunflower and tobacco crops in the agricultural lands in the north of the country. The Eurocopter approached the town of Chefchaouen from the south and Lea almost gasped when she saw the setting sun lighting up the dazzling azure walls of the town below them. She saw at once why the world called this bewitching place the Blue Pearl.
“I’ve never seen anything like it in my life,” she said to herself.
Hawke turned to her. “What was that?”
“I said I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s incredible.”
No one disagreed as they watched the late sunlight illuminating the walls, houses and shops of Chefchaouen – all painted in bright, neon blue, and nestling in the safety of the breathtaking Rif Mountains.
They touched down and made their way north into the town. Khatibi’s house was in the Souika District, and it was only thanks to Ryan’s basic grasp of Arabic that they were able to follow the road signs pointing to their destination.
As they cruised through streets still busy with traders and tourists, Lea noticed handfuls of locals standing here and there, chatting and smoking and the occasional man walking along in a djellaba – a long robe with a pointed hood.
“Look like they’re out of Star Wars,” she said.
“Eh?” Hawke said.
“Those guys.”
“Or maybe,” Ryan said, “Star Wars looks like it’s out of here?”
As they made their way deeper into the town and cruised past the Medina, Hawke cursed. Heavy rains in the last few days had caused some subsidence on many of the local roads and he struggled here and there when the sealed top crumbled under the weight of their vehicle.
Lexi sighed and ran her hands through her hair. She wasn't sure where home was any more, but she knew she was far away from it.
“Problem?” Scarlet asked.
“Blue is all they have…”
“It’s bloody amazing!”
Lexi sighed a second time. “On the way here I was reading about El Badi Palace in Marrakech.”
“And that is..?”
Ryan interrupted. “A highly impressive ruined palace ordered by the Sultan Ahmad al-Mansur in the late 1570s. Today it’s one of the country’s most popular tourist attractions, drawing thousands of visitors each year, all coming to see what was once a luxurious palace, built of gold, onyx, cedar wood and ivory.”
“I can answer for myself, Ryan,” Lexi said with a scowl.
“And your point is?” Lea asked.
“All we get is blue.”
“Well why don’t you ask Mr Khatibi why he doesn’t live in Marrakech?”
“I might.”
“This place is supposed to be amazing for kif,” Ryan said, peering inquisitively through the car windows as if in search of something.
“What’s that?” Camacho asked.
“A very finely chopped local cannabis. This place is pretty much the cannabis production capital of the entire country.”
“So what?”
“So, if you see anyone selling the stuff, give me a bell.”
An eye roll from Lea. “Ryan – over there by the crossroads.”
“What?”
“There’s a big shop with DOPE written over it. I think you should go in there.”
“Very droll,” h
e said as they reached their destination.
Khatibi’s house was on a steep road which approached the eastern limits of the town and gave an impressive view of the mountains beyond.
“Right,” Hawke said, switching off the ignition and checking the mirrors. “We’re here, and from the looks of things we’re the only ones as well. Let’s go.”
“Oh God – he’s not going to be wearing a fez, is he?” Scarlet said.
“Why the hell would he be wearing a fez?” Ryan said, aghast.
“I just had an image of him wearing a fez.”
“Isn’t that Turkey?” Lea said.
“No, it’s Egypt, isn’t it?” Camacho said.
“Your ignorance is actually frightening,” Ryan said. “Tell me, Cairo. When you used your tiny mind to conjure that image of Khatibi wearing a fez, did it include a camel and a box of dates?”
“Now don’t be silly, boy.”
“And it’s called a tarboosh in Morocco,” Ryan said wearily.
“Well, I’m definitely not going up if he’s got a tarbrush on his head,” Scarlet said.
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Tarboosh, I said, and it was an Ottoman idea that never got this far west.”
“I’ll go,” Lea said. “I’m the only one here who is vaguely sensible.”
“Hey!” Hawke said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugged her shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.
They walked up the steps and knocked on the door. A few moments later it swung to reveal an old man in a badly-fitting linen jacket and dishevelled shirt. He had thin black hair scraped back and set in place with some kind of product that smelled vaguely antiseptic. Lea was dimly aware of Scarlet suppressing a giggle and turning away to face the street. She rolled her eyes and turned to the elderly man. “Dr Khatibi?”
“No, I am his brother.”
“Can we speak to him?”
“Who are you and what do you want?” The man’s English was excellent, with only the vaguest hint of an accent.
“We need his help with a confidential matter.”
“Well you’re not going to get it. My brother was arrested last night for fighting over a game of tric trac.”
“Backgammon,” Ryan told the others.
“Arrested?” Hawke said. “Where is he being held?”
“In the local spa, where do you think? He’s in the jail, of course.”
Hawke glanced at the others and knew they were already thinking the same thing that he was. “And where is the jail?”
“The Comissariat Police on the Avenue Allal El Fassi… over in El Hafa.”
He turned and spoke in Arabic and a moment later a young man appeared in the door. “You’re in luck – my son Joumari is going there to visit him. He’s not being released until the morning.”
The drive through the city to Comissariat Police in the El Hafa District took less than ten minutes, and now the sun had sunk lower and the city was cooling down. Hawke weaved their hired Pajero through the still-busy streets of Chefchaouen, passing various souks and tourists gathering outside restaurants for their evening meal.
They parked up at the south end of the avenue and Hawke studied the perimeter wall of the building from the driver’s seat. It wasn’t exactly fortified like Fort Knox, but there were several police officers and even a few soldiers milling about the place.
“Right,” Hawke said, turning to Joumari. “Whereabouts is Khatibi being held?”
“It was a minor offense, so he’s in the cells on the north side of the jail.”
“And what’s the best way to get there once we’re past the main reception?”
Joumari looked shocked. “Wait… what?”
“We’re breaking him out,” Scarlet said. “Do make an effort to keep up.”
“But you cannot break him out!”
“Of course we can, and you’re going to help.”
“I will not.”
Lexi sighed and reached into her bag. After a few seconds of mumbling and cursing she pulled out a small bundle of American bills. “Five thousand dollars.”
“Five thousand dollars?” he said. “You have to be joking!”
Lexi shook her head and pulled a second bundle of Wolff’s money out. “All right, ten thousand but not a penny more.”
“No one gets hurt?” Joumari said.
The ECHO team exchanged a quick glance but Scarlet was next to speak. “Of course not.”
Joumari’s eyes widened as he stuffed the money into his pockets. “The best way is along the western edge of the inner yard, and then up to the second floor. But you will still have to deal with the guards stationed on the corner of his cell block.”
“Just leave that to us,” Hawke said taking one last look at the building.
“What about guns?” Lea asked.
Hawke shook his head. “We won’t get past all those soldiers and police with guns. They’ll have the place on a lockdown in seconds. We go in unarmed and tool up on the other side. All right, let’s party.”
Hawke, Reaper and Joumari left the Pajero and stepped out into the street. The Englishman waved a fly off his lip as he made his way across the narrow side road, flanked by Reaper on one side and Joumari on the other.
Joumari spoke next. “When we get inside, the reception will be to our left through a door. Let me do the talking and I should be able to get all of us through without any trouble. I think that Mansouri and Tazi are on shift. They should be no problem.”
They crossed the road and stepped into the main entrance. A moment later Joumari sighed.
“What’s the problem?” Hawke asked.
“The good news there seems to be only one man on reception.”
“And the bad news?”
“The bad news is that it’s neither Mansouri or Tazi. It’s Hajji.”
“And that’s a problem why?”
“We don’t get on and he never breaks the rules.”
“Then we’ll have to make some new rules,” Hawke said. “Let’s go.”
Hajji turned out to be everything Joumari promised and ten percent more. He was the kind of annoying little box ticker Hawke couldn’t stand, and as Joumari bartered and pleaded with him to let the two foreigners into the jail, Hawke and Reaper shared a glance of concern as what little time they had slipped away.
Reaper moved first, nudging Joumari out the way and speaking to Hajji in French, the old colonial language of the country.
Hawke watched as his friend pretended not to hear something and ask him to come closer. Hajji leaned toward the screen and raised his voice, but it was too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Reaper thrust his arm though the aperture at the bottom of the screen where documentation normally changed hands, and grabbed Hajji by his necktie, pulling him forward hard until his face smashed into the acrylic screen giving them a terrible technicolour view as his lips split open and his nose broke. Reaper repeated the exercise a second time and knocked the man out, then he released him and he slumped back into his soft chair.
“Eh bien, what now?”
Joumari looked at the unconscious body of his colleague and winced. “He had that coming,” he said, darting around the other side of the reception and taking Hajji’s keys. “And the armoury is this way, follow me.”
They followed their Moroccan guide along a grimy corridor before turning a corner and finding themselves standing before a chunky iron door. Joumari pulled the keychain from his pocket and opened the door to reveal a small room which smelled vaguely of gun oil and tobacco. The armoury was where the prison secured rifles in the event of a major riot in the prison.
They moved into the room and Reaper kept watch as Joumari unlocked one of the gun cabinets. By the time the Moroccan was unlocking the ammunition container Hawke had already selected three rifles and checked them over but when they stepped back out into the corridor two large guards were waiting for them.
Hawke moved first, pushing Joumari back into t
he armoury and powering a meaty punch into the first guard’s face. He felt the nose give way under the force of the strike and a squelchy crunching noise confirmed it a split second later. The guard staggered backwards and gasped for air as the blood from his broken nose poured down over his top lip and into his mouth.
A few yards to his left, the former French legionnaire was bringing a heavy steel toecap boot up into the second guard’s groin. He howled and doubled over, just in time for his face to meet with Reaper’s right hand, now tightened into a heavy and dangerous fist.
Hawke’s man had gathered his thoughts and after regaining his balance he padded over to the Englishman with one thing on his mind, and this time drew his service pistol to underline the matter.
Hawke saw it coming and charged into the fray, disarming the man with a savagely fast and violent twist of his wrist. The man screamed as his wrist broke and dropped the gun to the floor, but Hawke wasn’t dropping down a gear until his opponent was out for the count. With no chance for the man to fight properly with a broken wrist, Hawke knew his opponent was a wounded bird, and decided to be merciful. He smashed a high-velocity hook punch into his right jaw and cracked his head back against his neck, knocking him out instantly.
Reaper was now heavily engaged with his own battle, powering a vicious salvo of punches into the smaller man’s stomach and winding him harshly. The man gasped and panicked as he strained to get air into his lungs but Reaper was relentless with the punches.
Hawke made a big show of leaning against the wall and checking his watch. “Going to be much long, Vincent?”
Reaper ignored it, spitting some blood on the floor and then smashing a brutal shovel hook into the nerves behind the man’s right ear. He dropped unconscious to the floor a heartbeat later.
“You finally took him out,” Hawke said with a grin.
“I like to fight with a flourish,” Reaper said, dusting off his hands and wiping the blood from his mouth. “I spar with finesse… you belt things.”
Hawke clapped him on the shoulder and laughed as they went back inside the armoury.
