Storm Clouds

by Steven Becker

  “John Storm?” she asked.

  Mako was genuinely surprised at her question. “My father?” He knew John was connected somehow, but through Rashi?

  That connection seemed to change everything. Rashi opened her arms. “Please sit. Coffee, tea?”

  They made themselves comfortable, though they declined her offer. Despite Mako’s claim that the men were gone, he knew they were still out there. The sooner they were out of the library the better, but first he had to gain Rashi’s confidence.

  “How do you know my father?”

  “My father held this position before me. For years he worked with Zahi Hawass, the former Minister of Antiquities. The government might have been more corrupt then, but it was a golden age in Egyptology. The current minister is a poor replacement.”

  Mako would have liked to know more, but the clock was ticking. “We are of the opinion that the tomb is fake, and he intends to seed it with articles from the cache,” he said.

  Rashi stared at her steepled fingers. Mako gave her some space, knowing that this was probably the last thing she wanted to hear.

  “Beecher.” She muttered the name, then looked up. “I suspected this was all too good to be true.”

  “He’s the one who tried to kill us?” Gretchen asked.

  From the way she said it, Mako suspected that this wasn’t the first time she’d heard the name.

  Rashi placed her hands on the desk. “Men with skills like Beecher are few and far between. Most are aboveboard, but the market for stolen and forged relics is too lucrative for many to pass up. Many archeologists will ‘disappear’ one or two lesser items to pay the bills; others are outright crooks. Beecher is the one man that could pull this off.”

  “But the map?” Gretchen asked.

  Rashi sat back. The clock in Mako’s head told him it was time to go. He doubted the three men were acting independently. There were probably several more watching the exits. Sooner rather than later, they would realize their prey was still in the library. Assuming the minister had sent them, they would have the authority to search the building. Mako hoped that would take time. He knew bringing Rashi onto their side was worth the risk.

  “Another map of the desert. They’re like pirate’s treasure maps in your country. ‘X’ almost never marks the spot—if you can even find the island.”

  She leaned forward.

  “Only since the advent of GPS has desert navigation become straightforward. Maps and compasses are of limited value in the Great Sand Sea. The few landmarks are not often what they appear, and what was there yesterday may not be tomorrow. A single degree of error plotting a course can result in death. Celestial navigation involving complex mathematics was the only reliable mode until GPS.”

  “So, this is a wild goose chase?” Mako asked.

  “There have been plenty of those, but this is on another level. Hoover’s files, the minister’s interest, and Beecher are enough to make it appear that there is something more to this.”

  “What about the cavern?”

  Rashi glanced around and lowered her voice. “That is why I am here.”

  She stopped and all three shifted their attention to the door. They could hear heavy footsteps in the corridor, banging on doors, shouts demanding entrance. In quick succession they heard wood shatter as doors were breached. Whoever was out there was moving in their direction.

  Mako looked around the room for a hiding place, but there was nothing except a small closet.

  Rashi wasted no time. She rose and moved to the closet, where she pulled out a traditional abaya and niqab similar to what she was wearing. "This will work for her."

  Mako was not above dressing like a woman. He peered around her into the closet and pointed. “That one’ll work.”

  By the time the men were outside the door, Mako, Rashi, and Gretchen were kneeling on the floor dressed as traditional Arabs. Only a small, uncovered area around their eyes and noses gave a clue as to who they were.

  “We must pray,” Rashi said.

  Mako got on his knees next to Gretchen and followed Rashi’s lead. A second later, a fist banged on their door.

  34

  Offshore of the Florida Keys

  This wasn’t the first time Alicia and TJ had been in trouble. If she’d had time to reflect instead of worrying about the present situation, she might have noticed “situations,” as they were known in the Agency, had become a regular occurrence.

  There was some benefit to that. Experience under fire is extremely valuable—a line crossed in the sand between those that have been and those that haven’t. It enabled her to remain calm and evaluate options without panic. Her proactive-planner personality archetype was of little use here, but her talent for analytic thinking was. It allowed her to see the entire situation, not just a part of it.

  TJ was below “filling” the fuel tank from the jerry cans of diesel they had brought aboard. Alicia had to trust him. There was only one thing that she could think of that he could be doing. She avoided even a glance in TJ’s direction so as to not distract the man, whose attention was buried in his phone.

  Suddenly he looked up, sending her heart into her throat. “What’s taking so long?”

  “Just about finished,” TJ called up, then unceremoniously tossed the empty can onto the deck for effect. “Gotta secure the cans and I’ll be up. Go ahead and fire her up.”

  The man seemed to buy the answer. Alicia turned to the man, who nodded. She moved to the wheel. If she was right, she would need to be in position; if she was wrong, it might get her killed.

  “Ready.” TJ broke the long moment of silence.

  Alicia counted down from five in her head. She reached “one” and discreetly slid the plastic disk back in place, then turned the key. This was another gamble. Based on the guy not suspecting anything about the kill switch, she doubted he had any knowledge of diesel engines. If he did know anything, he would be aware that after running out of fuel, the engines would need to be primed.

  The starter turned over. Alicia quickly released pressure on the key. It dropped back to the “on” position. She was prepared to turn it counterclockwise another stop to “off,” but the engine” cooperated” by not starting on the first try.

  “Give it another go. Now!” TJ shouted.

  The engine firing covered the sound of the flare that TJ shot into the pool of fuel floating on the water’s surface. Diesel’s flash point is considerably higher than gas, but the temperature of the flare as it hit the water was enough.

  Alicia was ready—the man wasn’t. With a whoosh the fuel, which had spread all around the boat, caught. As the man turned toward the blaze, Alicia slammed her fist into his throat. He crumpled instantly, and she followed through with a kick to his head.

  TJ was topside by the time she was ready to finish him. He had a handful of large zip-ties they used to rig a quick release for the anchor. Alicia struck the man in the head one more time and moved to the side to allow TJ to secure him.

  She sat back with her heart pounding. A fog seemed to surround her, and her eyes felt like they were burning. Something was wrong. TJ had done a fine job of creating a diversion to allow her to take out the man, but it was too good a job. The boat was on fire.

  Fighting nausea, she climbed to the deck, knowing full well how dangerous a fire at sea could be. They were on their own. Fortunately, the engines ran on diesel or she expected they would be dead by now. That didn’t mean the fuel was not eventually going to ignite.

  Alicia dropped down the ladder and grabbed the fire extinguisher from its clip by the salon door. She shot the contents into the flames, climbing over the gunwale while fighting off a flashback to just over a year ago when something similar had happened. They’d lost the boat then. Getting the insurance for that had been hard enough. There was no way they were going to cover a similar “accident” a year later. Replacing the boat could break them. This time the bad guy was secure, and they could actually fight the fire.

&n
bsp; She felt a slight breeze, then lost her footing as the boat surged forward. Suddenly the air was clear, and she glanced over the transom at the burning fuel on the surface. She allowed herself to drop to the deck and tried to get her heart rate under control as TJ sped away from the conflagration.

  Not only was he trying to preserve the boat—which, aside from some soot marks and the remains of the spent fire extinguisher, was fine—he was also trying to distance them from any investigation.

  After a few minutes, Alicia rose to her feet. TJ had slowed to a comfortable cruising speed, which allowed her to move around the deck. Grabbing the raw-water washdown, she hosed the deck and gunwales. It took a few minutes’ work with the brush, but any evidence of the fire was soon gone.

  Satisfied, she climbed to the flybridge.

  “What are we going to do with him?” she asked.

  If it were up to her, they’d dump him like he had planned on dumping them, but they weren’t killers. Her analytical mind kicked in but failed to produce an answer.

  “How about we keel haul him? Chum up some snapper?” TJ asked.

  Alicia started to wonder about herself when she almost agreed. There was a good chance he’d live, but an equal one that he wouldn’t. It wasn’t up to them to play God. “No, we’re not like that.”

  “But he is.” As he spoke, TJ pointed to a small center console coming toward them with the easily identifiable form of John Storm aboard. From this distance, they couldn’t make out his features, but his body type lent a hint. By the time the other boat was close enough for them to see the man swap out the rifle for a handgun, she knew it was John.

  Alicia waved that they were okay. She could see John relax slightly, but the gun remained at the low-ready position. John Storm took no chances. She smiled as they pulled alongside. TJ helped with the lines and John climbed nimbly aboard.

  He stepped up to the flybridge and looked at the body on the deck. “I know this guy.” He leaned over and gave a quick tug to check the man’s restraints. “See, you have the situation in hand.”

  “We don’t know what to do with him,” Alicia said.

  Samantha’s head appeared at the top of the stairs. “Hey, that’s the guy that paid us to crack the computers.”

  “Training the grandkids, John?” Alicia ribbed.

  John gave the girl a look. “Thought I told you to stay in the boat and babysit your brother.”

  “He’s puking everywhere. I needed some air.”

  John shook his head. “Go get him.”

  “Not in the cabin. Stick him by the transom.” Alicia might have survived the afternoon’s activities, but she was not about to clean up after a seasick kid.

  “Roger,” Samantha said, and dropped below.

  “Really, John?”

  “Long story, but they could be some help. Girl’s got some spunk.” John looked around the boat and out over the surrounding water. “I got no use for that boat. We’ll stick this sucker aboard, jam the steering, and send him to the Bahamas.”

  35

  Alexandria, Egypt

  The door opened. Mako resisted the urge to look up and instead placed his head back on the prayer rug that he, Rashi, and Gretchen were sharing. As he pressed his forehead deep into the mat, he discovered the source of the dark mark many Muslims carried on their forehead as a symbol of their devotion.

  The man muttered what sounded like an apology and closed the door. Mako gave a heart-felt prayer to every god in attendance that their ruse had worked and slowly lifted his head. He met Gretchen’s relieved gaze, and they waited while Rashi finished her prayer.

  “Brilliant,” Gretchen said.

  They enjoyed a light moment before they realized they were not out of the woods yet. They had probably been granted only a temporary reprieve. There was still a good chance the men would come back or there was someone waiting outside.

  The question of alliances hung in the room. Mako hoped the quiet interlude would clarify Rashi’s goals. Academics lived on their credentials. Rashi, through her background as illustrated by the framed diplomas on the wall and her job, appeared to be a classic academic. If he was right, she would do whatever it took to stop the fraud.

  Mako had a moment when he questioned his priorities. Until their phone call earlier, his father’s wellbeing had been his driving force. Now that the field had changed, he needed to figure out where he stood. Adventure for adventure’s sake was not his thing. He ended up in enough crazy situations when he was “working.” The political relationship between countries didn’t even enter his reasoning. Looking from the outside in, he realized that many would think him shallow. For Mako Storm, it had always been about living the James Bond lifestyle.

  Even 007 would be envious of the two women sitting in the room with him, and the location could have fit a Bond film, but something was missing.

  “I need to talk to Alicia,” he said.

  Rashi clearly didn’t know who he was talking about, but Gretchen nodded. The old saying about knowing your enemy came to mind, except with the words changed to know your friends. He had only met Rashi once and thought her easier to understand than Gretchen, who had proven to be smart, capable, and fun, but—Mako had to admit—he had no idea what her agenda was.

  Mako stepped to the corner of the room, where he turned on the earbud. It took a minute to connect, but there was only silence on the other end. His father might be safe, but something was wrong in Key Largo.

  Feeling very alone, Mako moved back to Rashi’s desk. If Alicia was out of play, the Egyptologist was the next best thing.

  “Will you help us?”

  “You have the map?”

  “For what it’s worth, yes.”

  Mako focused on Rashi, but did his best to gauge Gretchen’s reaction to his confession. As usual, he couldn’t detect a sign either way. She was either void of emotion or skilled at hiding it.

  “What does your country want?”

  “Good question,” he replied, and probably one without a clear answer. America’s agenda tended to swing like a pendulum in four- or eight-year cycles. He’d always gone with the flow, but now it was time for Mako to decide what he wanted.

  The answer was as simple as doing the right thing. “We need to stop Ahmed.”

  “How much do you know of his plan?” Rashi asked.

  “After being shot at by Beecher and thrown out of the country by the minister, I’m guessing the two of them are in on it and created the tomb. From what you’ve told us, he’s tasked with reviving tourism and is using a fake grave to do so,” Mako said.

  Rashi looked pensive. “Lumping the ministries of tourism and antiquities together was a conflict of interest. I never thought he was evil, but a victim of circumstances. The army’s ability to control the country through commerce is bad for Egypt. Ahmed is a victim of that.”

  The minister’s underlying issues didn’t matter to Mako. Having grown up with John Storm for a father, he had learned that to be a victim you had to allow someone else control over you. Victim status didn’t apply to anyone with a choice in their circumstances—even if your circumstances weren’t good.

  Mako’s next statement was so foreign to him that he had to rehearse the words in his head before he said them. “It’s about right and wrong. If your aim is to expose him, we will help.” Mako knew he was speaking for Gretchen too. He risked a glance at her but, as expected, there was no sign of acceptance or denial. In fact, the only reaction he had seen from her was at hearing Beecher’s name.

  Rashi looked down at the desk. “I’d be grateful for the help. I work under the ministry and have little freedom. If I were to privately or publicly speak my fears of the tomb’s authenticity, it would be the end of my career—at the least.”

  “What can we do?” Gretchen asked, sympathetically,

  “First we need to get out of here. Then, the key is to find the real grave before Ahmed can complete his illusion.”

  “Wow, I thought this map just showed a ca
che of relics,” Mako said.

  “A cache of relics in Egypt usually means a grave.”

  The phone rang, interrupting her. Rashi picked up the receiver and gave a few curt answers in Arabic.

  “We have to go. Someone is asking security where I am. They are on their way,”

  The trio got up and adjusted their robes and niqabs. Mako moved to the door and cracked it open. He checked the corridor and stepped through the doorway, signaling for Rashi and Gretchen to follow.

  Rashi led them down the rounded hallway. Mako was in the rear, checking over his shoulder every few seconds to see if they were being followed. They reached a bank of elevators.

  Rashi reached out to press the call button. “No go. We need the stairs,” Mako said. Elevators were traps.

  “Right.”

  At the end of the hallway was a single doorway with the same Alarm will sound if opened sign in Arabic and English that Mako had noticed earlier. Rashi moved to open it, and he was about to stop her when she removed a key from a hidden pocket. Seconds later they were in the stairwell. The automatic closer slammed the door behind them.

  “We can’t go out the main entrance. Is there another way? The roof?”

  “Down one more level.”

  Mako pictured the building in his mind and recalled the disc-shaped roof that followed the building’s lines and sloped toward, and actually fell below, ground level. Where normally a roof would be expected to be a level or so above, in this case it was below them. They followed Rashi down another floor, where they exited the stairwell. To the right of the steel door was a similar one that led to the roof.

  It had the same sign.

  “I don’t have a key for this one.”

  “A little chaos won’t hurt the cause. They’ll know soon enough that we escaped.” Mako brushed past the women and pushed the crash bar. The door opened, and he waited for the alarm to sound. There was only the sound of traffic from the street and the sound of the door closing behind them.