by Sarah Black
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring me a computer. I’ll just do a brief check-in before I have to be downstairs. I need you to come get me five minutes before the press conference is supposed to start. Oh, and if General Painter calls and orders you to do anything, tell him I said you work for me, and he cannot override and take operational control of the mission.”
“You mean… what do you mean?”
“Tell him to butt out and leave it alone, I’m handling things.”
“Yes, sir. I think he already called, and the communications officer, his daughter, told him to butt out, you were handling things.”
“Excellent. She’s a smart girl, Sam.”
JOHN wore Billy’s yellow shirt for good luck, and realized when he was getting dressed that now his shoestrings were missing from the new Derbys, he could wear his Suede Hipster Chukkas with everything. His feet were settling into them the way his butt settled into old jeans. He wondered if John Varvatos made them in a medium brown. Grey was such a strange color for shoes.
He went down to the lobby alone. Hamid Dilou was with a crowd of older men, all very formally dressed, sitting in the chairs by the picture windows overlooking the Mediterranean. They were arguing among themselves, but very quietly, and they all stopped speaking when one of them realized he’d arrived. John was struck again by the beauty of the lobby, the cool white marble, bounded by a blue sky and sea. The manager came to speak to him. It was the same man from last night. Either he lived at the hotel or he was afraid to leave his post until this mess was out of his hotel. “You really do have a most beautiful resort here, Mr. Aziz. I could look at this view all day.”
“Thank you, Dr. Mitchel. I hope you have everything you need?”
“Yes, you have been most kind and generous.”
“Dr. Grant from the embassy is here. She would like to speak to you if you have a moment before the press conference starts.”
Madeline Grant was a handsome woman with strong features, black hair in a careful bob. John had met her on several occasions when he was with the JCS. She was the perfect, very smart, very quiet Head of Station for rocky Tunisia. “Madeline!” She held out her hands and he took them, then kissed her on the cheek. “I’m so happy to see you. I hope we’ll have a chance to get caught up before I have to leave.”
“Somehow I suspect you’ll be fleeing the country in the middle of the night, but yes, I would love to get caught up.”
“Oh, no, we absolutely will not be fleeing the country in the middle of night.”
“The Ambassador is furious.” She said this with her smile unchanged. “First time I ever worried he might stroke out at his desk.”
“It is upsetting to watch another person be brutally assaulted,” John agreed. “I was upset myself.”
“And yet you’ve made an excellent recovery!”
“Army PT and sirloin steaks, Madeline. It’s a regimen I would recommend to anyone. Are the charges against my men going to be dropped?”
“Not at this time. This is an apology about the assault.”
“An assault by his grandson, Ali Bahktar. I will not be accepting his apology.”
She slipped a card into his hand, and he put it into his pocket. “Perhaps you could brief me when we’re done. I’m probably going to slip out before the end. Will you give me a call?”
“Absolutely.”
Al Jazeera and the BBC were front and center, their cameras jostling for position as the minister rose and moved to the podium. He had sallow skin and a thick black moustache, and the outer corners of his eyes drooped a bit, giving his face a gloomy look. John stood to the side until the man made eye contact with him, gestured with his hand for John to stand next to him. He looked furious, his movements stiff and jerky. He stared when the class of schoolgirls trooped in, wearing their white blouses and knee-length blue skirts. The girls stood in neat rows at the back of the room, looking at the cameramen with wide eyes and giggles they suppressed as best they could. John had to wonder who had forced the minister’s hand. This apology was not his idea.
Well, whatever he felt right now, John was pretty sure it was about to get worse.
The minister lifted his chin at the cameraman, started speaking in Arabic. “We at the Ministry of Culture appreciate the American guests to our country. A recent misunderstanding between this American and a group of young men led to a confrontation which has unfortunately been misreported in the media. I offer to him my apology for the misunderstanding.”
John stared at him for a long moment, let disbelief drift across his face. The Minister stared straight ahead. “Carthage,” he began, speaking in elegant Arabic. “The beautiful, beating heart of an ancient giant. My young nephews were raised to look up to Tunisia. They were raised dreaming of Carthage. They came here,” his voice was getting louder, “to pay their respects, to visit the Bardo, to walk among the hallowed remains! My son Hannibal brought with him a copy of a page from the ancient book by the Arabic engineer and inventor, Al-Jazari.” John held up one of the copies of the page with the Elephant Clock. He’d made extra copies, which Sam passed around to the reporters. He had some extras, and he gave them to the giggling girl’s class. “The Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices! This book was written in 1200 and contains some of the most fascinating and unique mechanical inventions the world has ever seen. My sons walked through Carthage, carrying a picture of the inventor Al-Jazari’s great Elephant Clock, and they were attacked by Salafist thugs, screaming at them and tearing their clothes, punching and kicking them! Does not Tunisia teach her children to respect their rich history? Are these Salafist bullies unable to distinguish a page from The Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices from more holy text? I arrived in Tunis to find my sons, and I found them. Oh, yes, I found them in 9 Avril Prison, thrown in a filthy pit, brutalized, accused of blasphemy.”
Everyone in the room had heard of the notorious prison. John turned slowly and looked at the Minister of Culture. “You apologize to me, Minister? My sons came here with a great love of Carthage, with a great respect for the history of Islamic scholarship. How will they leave Tunisia?” John slammed the page down on the podium, walked out of the room. He made it to the elevator before the shouts started behind him.
Chapter 16
IT WASN’T as much fun to do this sort of thing without Gabriel, John thought. If the Horse-Lord had his back, he would have swept out of the room and Gabriel would have walked backward down the hall, some sort of lethal weapon at about waist level. Then in the elevator they would have leaned against each other, and Gabriel would have moved a slow hand down his throat, over his chest, and he would have mentioned how incredibly brilliant John was, and how he had hit one over the fence.
John leaned against the back wall of the elevator. His crew had a lot of heart, he could say that for them, but they were running on empty. Every one of them needed sleep. Their security had been up more than twenty-four hours, and the security situation had just deteriorated significantly. This situation needed a delicate touch, a creative and strange mind, if they were going to resolve the conflicts. And he didn’t want to just resolve the conflicts. He wanted to turn the situation into something positive. A solution that was a gift to those two boys, to the kid Hannibal Green had been, staring into an old encyclopedia and dreaming about building Al-Jazari’s Elephant Clock in Carthage. John wondered what Kim would think of Eli and Daniel, and about what was happening in Tunisia.
Jen was curled up on the couch. Jackson had the door, reported that Wylie was taking ten. Youssef Shakir was sitting with Eli and Daniel. His son was sleeping in one of the rooms down the hall. John walked over to the bed, put his hand on Eli’s forehead. He couldn’t tell if the boy still had a fever. He felt warm, the skin damp, but he was restless, moving on the bed, grimacing when his arm moved in the splint. Youssef spoke softly, his voice a gentle singsong. “I was telling him some stories before he fell asleep,” Youssef said. “Stories of the great wars betw
een Carthage and Rome.”
“Thank you, he’ll like that.”
“I have been in that prison,” Youssef said. “9 Avril Prison.” John put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “It was a long time ago, but I have not forgotten. I suspect nothing has changed.”
“I don’t want you to get into trouble for being here with us.”
Youssef shrugged. “Not everything is in your control, General Mitchel. I imagine that is hard for you to accept on some days.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Very hard.” John went into the kitchenette, opened the refrigerator door. Chicken and rice. There probably wasn’t a sirloin for a hundred miles. Shit, John, just go to bed. That chicken and rice is gonna look really good when you’re a little hungrier. He pulled out his phone, called Greg Mortimer. “Hey, Greg. Can you do me one more small favor?”
“What’s that?”
“I need a couple of tough guys to stand for Wylie and Jackson for a couple of hours so they can sleep.”
“You probably need some sleep yourself. Tell Wylie I’ll send some boys.”
John got undressed, pulled the curtains tight against the sunlight and lay down on the bed. He was a little jittery, though, after that bullshit downstairs, and wasn’t sure he could sleep. He was so much happier when he could mold events from behind the scenes. He was James Madison, not Thomas Jefferson. Living with a BBC cameraman watching your back sucked. When was Gabriel getting in? He found himself humming a tune under his breath, that stupid Super Freak, the song Gabriel liked to dance to when he was stressed out. John shoved a pillow over his head. He wasn’t dancing to Super Freak alone. He’d just have to suffer until the Horse-Lord arrived. Oh, shit. Madeline Grant. He’d promised to brief her. He reached for the phone on the bedside table.
“John? You okay?”
“I’m good, thanks, Madeline. Sorry this mess got dumped into your lap.”
“How are the young men? Were they really in 9 Avril Prison?”
“In a fucking filthy stone hole with no light and no toilets, and they had been interrogated and beaten and raped. What they were being interrogated about remains a mystery. I am way beyond pissed.”
She was silent for a moment. “Painter isn’t doing any off the books work for anyone, is he? I understood his operation in Algeria was simply security for a team doing exploratory drilling.”
“That is what I understand at well. I don’t work for him in the normal course of events. He just brought me in to get the boys home. What I do know for sure is these boys were just here as tourists. Big-eyed American tourists full of the wonder of ancient Carthage. They’re former army, very open-hearted boys. It hurts them to have had their offers of friendship to this beautiful land met with brutality.”
“I hear you. I’ll work on what we need to do to protect the rest of the Americans in Tunisia. We seem to be in a downward spiral. Have you met Jennifer Painter?”
“I have. What do you think of the work she’s doing?”
“Very subtle, that girl. She believes the women will know what to do on their own. All she’s doing is showing them how to network and making sure they have the tools to do it. I think the work she’s doing is important, John, but she’s nearly finished, if I understand her goals, and she may be a target after the boys go home. At this point, her name is known and associated with her father’s company, which is now associated with you.”
John winced. “I know she won’t want to go, but I’m not leaving any men behind. Gabriel Sanchez is on his way for backup. He’s my XO.”
“The Horse-Lord is coming? Great picture of the two of you on the cover of Out. I loved your interview, John. At first I thought you were going to wrestle control of the interview away from that young man, Brandon Cho, and turn it into a career counseling session. You were as interested in how he managed to get where he was as he was about you.”
“The army can’t afford to lose the creative thinkers, Madeline. We need people who think two standard deviations from the mean, you know? I wish that boy could have been my aide during my last tour with the JCS. He would have made significant contributions to his country, I’m sure of it. What a great loss.”
“The creative thinkers never fit in very well with the regular army, John, as you know yourself. Some times are easier than others, some leaders more open than others. I wish young Mr. Cho would consider graduate school, maybe a career in the Foreign Service. If you ever run into him again, John, give him my number, okay?”
“Will do. You mind if I reach out to Mortimer if a crisis looms?”
“I would take it badly if you didn’t! I’ll speak to you later, John.”
John checked the e-mail—no messages from Gabriel or Kim. He wrote a briefing on the current situation, e-mailed it to Gabriel so he would be ready to rock and roll when he arrived. Then he crawled between the sheets and fell deeply asleep. He dreamed of water, of swimming deep in the warm Mediterranean Sea, looking through the clear water, teal blue and peacock, at a sea floor littered with the wrecks of Roman galleons and Carthaginian sailing ships. So much war, so much waste. Did anyone even remember what they had been fighting over?
He woke at dusk, his head thick with sleep, and slipped into the shower. Out in the kitchenette the coffee pot was fresh and full, and he gave Sam a thumbs-up. Sam and Jen were on their computers at the table. He stuck his head in the second bedroom. Eli was asleep, and Daniel was wearing some borrowed exercise gear, stretching out. He needed a run. “You want to try and find the fitness center? I bet they have a treadmill.”
“Yes, sir,” Daniel said. “I’m not built for sitting around.”
Wylie fell in behind them when they left the room. “Wylie, how is everything?”
“No trouble so far,” he said. “Mr. Mortimer brought us some radios so we can communicate a little better if we’re in different parts of the hotel. I’ll come with you guys to PT. I thought you may want some exercise, even if it is that pansy-ass Ranger PT that the USMC grandmas do when they’re warming up.”
Daniel grinned back at him. “Oh, you think so, my man? I believe I can thrash your red-headed butt deeply into the ground. See, you’re talking and you don’t even know you’re talking to a world-class triathlete. You want to run first and then swim? We can ask the general to keep time.”
“Forsyth, you had an IV in your arm until three hours ago. Why don’t you save the ass thrashing for another day? And just in case you two babies were wondering, I did the Maui Ironman when you were in elementary school, and I can still spank both your butts.”
“How was your time, General?” Wylie was laughing down at him. The boy was huge, thighs like redwoods.
“Not bad. The Horse-Lord beat me by twelve seconds.”
They rode down to the second floor. The fitness center was a bright room with glass walls, full of exercise gear and weights. It overlooked the swimming pool and hot tub, down on the first floor, a twin to the outdoor pool.
Forsyth climbed onto a recumbent bike, which John thought was a smart way to warm up. He and Wylie got on treadmills. “So anything happen today while everyone was asleep? No one tried to breach our security?”
Wylie shook his head no. John cranked the treadmill up, started running at his warm-up pace.
“We did get a call, though,” Wylie said. “Somebody from the Bardo. Isn’t that the name of the museum Eli wanted to see?”
“Yeah,” Daniel said. “But it was closed for renovations. They said we should try the National Museum instead. But Eli had a bee in his bonnet that the elephant clock was in the Bardo, an original copy of the page from the book.”
“What book?” Wylie asked.
“The Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices by Al-Jazari. Written in 1200 or something. Eli’s been crazy about this book since he was a kid.”
“Somebody at the museum heard the general talking about it on the news today, that you boys wanted to go to the Bardo,” Wylie said. “They left a number, said they would try and call back
tomorrow. Said if you wanted a tour they would make arrangements for you to go.”
John looked back at Daniel. “What do you think?”
“He would love it,” Daniel said, “but he’s not strong enough yet to leave the hotel. I don’t like the way he looks. He’s sleeping all the time like he’s sick or he doesn’t want to be awake. Not like he’s tired. That PTSD, it’s worse when you sleep all the time when something happens.”
“He’s been getting antibiotics about 18 hours now. Let’s give him until the morning and we’ll decide if we need a medevac. I know he said he doesn’t want to leave with this unresolved, but if he’s hurt worse than we realize, I will overrule him and put you both on a plane.” John studied him a moment. “Daniel, you got knocked around, same as Eli. He seems to be worse off. Are you okay with what’s happening here, or do you just want to go?”
“See, the difference is Hannibal had his hopes set on Carthage. It meant something to him, and he wasn’t expecting to be kicked in the teeth. But when you’re braced for it, it doesn’t seem like such a big deal. I was in Iraq, in Fallujah. Back in that prison, I just pretended I was back in-country. Carthage was never my thing. I just wanted to come with Hannibal, watch his back. But, okay, I admit I’m feeling a little pissed off.”
“If you start having trouble, let me know.”
“Yes, sir, General Mitchel.”
“If you’re going to go off half-crazed, I might as well point you toward the bad guys, get some tactical advantage out of it.”
Daniel stared at him, then he and Wylie broke up into giggles. John cranked the speed up on his treadmill.
JOHN had set Kim and Abdullah researching locations of copies of Al-Jazari’s book with two goals in mind: first, to keep them busy and distracted so they wouldn’t be tempted to board a plane, as they had correctly suspected he was doing. And second, if they could acquire a copy of the rare book, they could use it as a bargaining chip. Painter would come up with fifty thousand, a hundred thousand and buy it from a struggling rare book collection or museum. Give it to the Tunisian people as a gift, or something like that, and John thought he would let Eli Green look at one of the originals. Look over the real book himself, and then if he wanted he could donate it to the Bardo. But now John was rethinking that plan. For one thing, he suspected the copies were more hidden, or more rare, than he had anticipated, because he’d not yet had a report from Kim and Kim was a world-class researcher. Secondly, the Minister of Culture was a fuckhead and so was his grandson and John didn’t think they deserved Al-Jazari’s wondrous book. But he would keep this in mind as a backup plan.
