by Roger Weston
As the hay fell away from his eyes, Paul verified that he'd seized a rifle butt. As he tore the weapon from the man's hands and leapt to the ground, he saw from the frightened expressions on the men's faces, that they hadn't really expected to find anyone.
Two men, apparently unarmed or carrying concealed weapons dove into a pottery shop as Paul swung the assault rifle across his field of fire looking for targets.
The man that he'd just disarmed screamed and dove at Paul, but his face collided with the swinging rifle butt. The sound of a cracking jaw preceded a pitiful cry. As he buckled to the ground, Kelly and Marwan crawled out of the hay.
The fourth man drew a handgun. As Paul squeezed the trigger, his assault rifle thundered. The first slug missed. The second slug caught his elbow at the joint, nearly blowing his limb clean off.
The man gave a tormented howl. Paul took two quick steps forward, slammed his hiking boot into the man's knee, causing it to cave in backwards with a crunch.
As the man collapsed, Paul seized Kelly by the arm and ran. Marwan followed. They turned a corner as a shot rang out. They sprinted down a side avenue filled with people. Paul shouldered several pedestrians, knocking them down as others cleared out of the way.
The arch of the medina entrance loomed straight ahead.
As they approached the entrance, a tall man with a handgun stepped out from behind the huge arch. As he drew bead, Paul squeezed off a burst of automatic fire.
The first slug glazed his outer thigh; the second 7.62mm bullet scored a hit in the man's groin, qualifying him for harem duty as a eunuch. The man gave a ghostly cry of shock and fired six shots in the air as he twisted to the ground where he curled up in a ball. Pedestrians ran for cover.
When Paul and Kelly ran past the shooter, he aimed his gun at Paul and repetitively pulled the trigger despite his lack of bullets.
In case he had another gun, Paul kicked him in the face. Nose cartilage crumbled as he rolled. His head slapped the asphalt and he cried in defeat.
As they ran, Paul used his shirt to wipe his prints off the AK-47, which he threw in some bushes. Five or six blocks away they slowed down and spotted a cabbie who'd been loafing on the hood of his car.
“Just drive,” Paul said. “I’ll tell you where to go in a few minutes.” He helped Kelly and Marwan into the cab.
As they cruised through Fez, Paul kept his eyes on Marwan. He noticed that Kelly had covered her face with her hands. He asked the cabby to stop and then paid him. Now on foot, Paul contemplated what their next move would be. Paul knew that sometimes the only way to end violence was with more violence. Marwan had said that Abu Bakr was in a camp near Timbuktu. He would go there. He would stop the bloodshed. The only question was what was the fastest way there?
As they walked by a palm-lined tourist hotel, Kelly stopped and glared at Paul with stony eyes. “What were you thinking?” she said. “Why did we come to Morocco? Why? This is insane.”
“Calm down,” he said, “You’re making a scene.” She lifted her hand to slap him, but Paul caught it before she could. He took a deep breath and continued walking.
Kelly ran to catch up with him. “I've had it! You don’t care about finding Ryan.” She turned and started to walk back the way they came. “I’m leaving this godforsaken place.”
Paul put his hand on her shoulder. “Not alone. It's too dangerous.”
“Hanging around with you is too dangerous. Tracking Abu Bakr is too dangerous. You’re going to get us all killed.”
“I will find Ryan.”
“You don’t even know if Abu Bakr has anything to do with what happened to Ryan.”
She turned towards the wide stone pathway that led to the hotel.
“I’m going to Madagascar,” she said as she walked down the palm-lined path, “and I’m going to find Ryan.”
Paul and Marwan looked at each other, and then went after Kelly.
Paul stopped Kelly in the lobby. Quietly he said, “You won't be safe looking for him alone down there.”
“Like I’ll be safe with you.” She said as she stomped off to the front desk.
CHAPTER 22
Paul watched Kelly check into the hotel. As a group of Western tourists passed through the lobby, Paul heard a large woman chattering about gunfire and terrorists in the medina. She pleaded with her tired husband to cancel their trip and go home. Outside, sirens announced the passing of police cars.
Paul noticed that the hotel had a restaurant. He turned to Marwan, “You hungry?”
Marwan shrugged.
“Come on, I’ll buy you something to eat.”
While Marwan ate, Paul massaged his forehead. What a mess he’d made of everything. Kelly was right. He never should have brought her with him to Morocco. He’d nearly gotten her killed. She would’ve been better off without him. He only hoped she’d make it out of Africa alive. To be sure she did, he would give her a few minutes alone in her room to calm down. Then he would buy her a plane ticket on the next flight back to the States. As for him, he would head back to Portugal and forget about it—forget about her, forget about Ryan. Forget about Abu Bakr. That’s right. It was time for him to chart a new course in life.
No. No! He still lived in the shadow of disgrace. He was tired of the dark judgment of his conscience. He could run from responsibility, but he could never run from himself. He’d fallen into a murky pit that he didn’t know how to climb out of. He couldn’t let it end like this. No, this wasn’t about Kelly anymore. He would do it for the redemption that he hoped it would bring. If he could respect and forgive himself, maybe then he could emerge from the black hole he was sinking in.
While Marwan gorged on the five-star meal, Paul broke out his laptop and went online. The latest Madagascar headlines listed the names of the most recent dead prospectors—names which jumped out and shook him. Names he knew. At first he felt dazed and sad, then angry. He shut his computer off and glanced over at Marwan who was finishing off a slice of chicken pastilla. Paul knew that Marwan was crushed over the death of his grandfather, but at least he was eating. That was a good sign. The world was a lonely place when there was nobody left that cared about you. Paul knew from experience that it was a hard world and harder yet when tragedy struck and you had nobody to lean on, just loneliness and . . . vengeance on your mind.
Paul gazed across the restaurant at a family who was sitting down at a table across from them. The kids looked happy and secure, full of life. The parents beamed with joy.
Paul cringed. He knew that his friends would never enjoy another meal with their wives and children. Not one—but two of the murdered foreign prospectors used to work with Ryan years ago, like himself. And both of their wives were among the dead. Their children were the true victims. Their loving parents were snatched away from them with vicious indifference. Now their worlds would never be the same.
Marwan stopped eating and looked up at Paul.
“When do we leave? I must avenge Paja.”
“Why is Abu Bakr in Mali?” Paul asked him.
“I’ve told you all I know.”
“You said he was looking for some lost papers.”
Marwan nodded. “Lost in the nineteenth century, the papers of a Scottish explorer named Laing.”
“Why are these papers so important to Abu Bakr?”
Marwan shrugged. “Paja said it had something to do with Madagascar.”
Paul raised his eyebrows. Maybe this was the connection he was looking for. He checked the internet again, getting a quick biographical sketch of Gordon Laing. Paul knew that he was the first European to make it to Timbuktu. The price for doing so? A horrifying death at the hand of his guide. Paul shuddered at the thought of being slashed to death in the desert, but he knew that the way he died didn’t answer the question of why Abu Bakr would want his papers. He researched for another hour hoping to find a connection, but could find none between Laing and Madagascar. Paul was going to have to dig deeper to find out what it was. There had to be a
connection. He shoved his laptop into his pack. “Let's go,” he said to Marwan. “We will fly to Algiers and travel through the desert to Timbuktu.”
***
At the check-in desk, Kelly began to calm down and think more clearly than she ever had before. She knew that she was lucky to have survived the day. More than once, she had thought death was certain. The fact that she was standing at the hotel check-in desk made her realize that it wasn’t her life she feared losing as much as it was her life with Ryan. That is what had driven her to come to Morocco with Paul in the first place. Now she knew that she needed to get to Madagascar. She needed to find Ryan. Her dream was to walk down the aisle with him. Her heart ached with loneliness. Since his disappearance, her hope lay shattered; her heart torn to pieces. Without him, she could only see a bleak and lonely future. Paul had stressed the danger she would face in Madagascar, but she wouldn’t run from that now. How could she be in more danger than she was already in? Only one thought pounded through her brain--find Ryan. She knew that he was still alive.
The hotel’s front desk clerk was a polished and cultured man who seemed offended when Kelly asked him to call the airport for the next flight out. She stressed that she didn't care where the flight was going; she just wanted the next flight out of Fez. She was confident she could find a connecting flight to Madagascar once she was out of Morocco.
The clerk gave her an impatient, forced smile. Kelly cringed inwardly. Couldn’t he just give her the information she needed? Why was he acting so rude?
“There are several flights,” the clerk replied. “You can leave in an hour to Paris.”
“Wonderful. I’ll need a cab to the airport,” Kelly said.
The corners of the clerk’s mouth moved weakly up and down as he looked over Kelly's shoulder. “There's a cab sitting out front.”
She turned and saw a red sedan with a black luggage rack on top. Bold yellow lettering on the rack said Petit – Taxi. Kelly breathed a sigh of relief. She turned back to the clerk. “Thank you.”
Then she remembered Paul. He was still across the lobby, sitting in the restaurant. He wasn't paying attention to her, but she didn't want him to see her leave. She didn't have time to deal with him trying to change her mind about going to Madagascar.
“Is there a side door out of the hotel?” she asked the clerk.
He gave her an irritated look. “The cab is out the front door.”
“I don't care. Is there another door?”
His shoulders dropped as though her request was completely unreasonable. “If you're going to make the flight to Paris—”
“Please, is there another exit?”
He hesitated, then pointed to a hall while avoiding further eye contact.
Kelly took a last look at Paul. He still wasn't looking her way, so she went down the hall and out the side door. Then she walked around to the cab. “Airport,” she said.
The well-dressed driver nodded and started down the road. Kelly felt relieved that she was finally getting out of Fez. Now she could do what she should have done several days ago, and Paul could do whatever he wanted to do.
The cab started to slow, and Kelly saw two men waving the car down.
“No, don’t stop.” Kelly said. “I'm not sharing the cab.”
The driver ignored her and pulled to the curb. A husky bald man got in the front, and a skinny, narrow-faced man slid in next to her. Uneasiness rose within her. She scooted toward the far door.
“I'll get another cab,” she said, reaching for the handle.
Pain shot through her arm as a hand reached across her stomach and gripped her wrist harshly. She looked over, and the narrow-faced man smiled at her with cruel eyes. Kelly tried to pull her arm away, but the man tightened his grip. “Let go of me,” Kelly said as she twisted her body. Again she tried to free her arm, but no—
A vicious hatred filled the skinny guy’s eyes as he clenched her wrist and pulled her toward him. Kelly whimpered as she tried to cling to the edge of the cheap vinyl of the bench seat with her free hand, but it was no use. Her body slid next to his. His hot breath invaded her nostrils and she gagged.
At that moment the door next to the man swung open. A figure in a black burka held a gun within the robe’s gaping sleeve. The hooded figure thrust the gun against the man’s head and a husky woman’s voice shouted at him. The man pushed Kelly’s hand away from him and sneered at the woman in the black garment. Returning his eyes to Kelly, the hatred he felt toward her continued to burn in his eyes.
The hooded woman leaned her head further into the cab and barked orders to the man in the front, and then she turned and walked away.
The bald man urged the cabby to obey and the car rolled back onto the road.
At the airport the cabby cowed to all threats and willingly accepted a wad of cash, saying, “Praise Allah.”
Kelly was loaded onto a large helicopter, where the narrow-faced man roughly handcuffed her. He hissed as he smiled at her with his cruel eyes. His body odor repulsed her, and she turned away in disgust. He shoved her down into a seat, sat next to her and nudged up close to her, saying something contemptuous in Arabic as he snarled his nose.
Kelly tried to charge the door, but the two men wrestled her back down. This time they threaded the handcuffs through the armrest of her seat.
“Let me go,” Kelly screamed. “Where are you taking me?”
They paid no attention.
“You can't do this,” Kelly said. “Why won't you listen to me?” Her heart raced as fast as a million bees. She thought of scratching the narrow-faced man’s eyes. She knew that it would only make him more vicious, but it also made her realize that she was capable of bringing violence to this predator. She knew that these animals had no concept of pity. She could only guess what they might to do her, but she was also starting to learn something about herself that she'd never known before. Anger coursed through her veins, and a rush of adrenaline spawned by her survival instinct kicked in and filled her blood.
***
After Marwan finished his meal, Paul approached the hotel’s check-in desk. “Kelly Quinn’s room, please.”
“I’m sorry, Monsieur. She did not check in. She booked the next flight to Paris and took a cab to the airport fifteen minutes ago.”
Paul’s heart sank. “She’s gone?”
At least she was now safe, Paul thought to himself. As for him? He would now set out to do what he came here to do.
CHAPTER 23
Fez, Morocco
Afternoon prayers ended in the Kairouyine Mosque. With a cigarette dangling from his lips, Otto stood in the courtyard, his shoes tapping anxiously on the sand-colored tile floor. With the material of his checkered head-cloth, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and under his eyes. Then he dried his hands and fingers on his pants. Hooded figures quietly shuffled past, their djellabas fluttering violently in the hot breeze. Otto felt his cheeks hollow as he took several deep drags off his cigarette.
He stretched his long neck and looked into the covered sections of the mosque, into the dim spaces beyond the big arches. He took a last drag of his cigarette, then dropped the butt on a tile and squished it with his blue leather slipper.
A figure inside the mosque shuffled through the dimness toward him. As the man walked slowly into the courtyard, Otto recognized the deep cleft on his forehead. The wary eyes of Abu Bakr, peered out from under the shade of his hooded djellaba. Otto noticed that one of Abu Bakr’s hands was thickly wrapped in a muslin bandage. Abu Bakr’s face came so close to Otto’s that he felt those eyes could read the lies in his rebellious heart.
Abu Bakr said nothing. He looked around, his eyes surely seeing evil wherever they looked. Apparently confident that he was well protected, he gave Otto a glare then looked at the freshly dampened cigarette butt that smoldered on the floor of the mosque. “We're standing on holy ground and you throw down your cigarette butt?” Abu Bakr bent over and picked up the butt. “I should have your tongue cut out for t
his.” He examined the cigarette more closely. “At least you listened to me and changed your brand of smokes.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I'm sorry,” he stammered.
“What happened?”
“We were—” Otto hesitated to rethink. “We found them in the medina, but they escaped into the underground.” Otto told the whole story, including how the sheikh was shocked by the stun-gun and nearly drowned in the sewer. Then he added: “I saved the sheikh even though he ruined our only chance to get the Americans. When I found my other men they were . . . dead.”
“What?”
“Shot in the tannery.”
“By who?”
“An assassin,” Otto continued. “But I took care of him.”
Beneath the shade of his hood, Abu Bakr's eyes became coals of hot anger. He slowly looked around the sunny courtyard, into the dimness of the mosque, across the green tiled roofs. He stared at several other hooded figures walking past, his bodyguards, who had cleared out the mosque of lingering worshipers. His tormented eyes returned to Otto.
“Who was it?”
“A Mexican named Juan Candelario,” Otto said. “He claims the Americans have $20 million dollars of his money.”
“In cash?”
“I don’t know. The man died before I could get any more out of him.”
“The American led our men into a trap. Correct?”
“The assassin saved him.”
“Only Eric Smith would be so bold.”
“I was unable to verify it, but I believe it was him.”
Abu Bakr narrowed his eyes. “This is the second time you let him get away.” He glared at Otto for a moment. “You underestimate him.” Abu Bakr held out the cigarette butt and examined it more closely. “Where is he now?”
