The Seventh Pillar

by Alex Lukeman

  "That's right. Only it was Persia then. They had a fortress in northwestern Iran, at a place called Alamut. It's still there. It was conquered by the Mongols in the thirteenth century."

  "What happened to them? You said they disappeared."

  "They believed in a succession of hidden Imams and went into something called dissimulation. Into hiding, until their Imams would reveal them again. That's not supposed to happen until there's a divine sign."

  "What kind of sign?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine. I suppose they'll know it when they see it."

  "Maybe the sign's turned up. Maybe they're back."

  "You think this cult is still around?" Steph asked.

  Selena shrugged. "It's their symbol. Their weapon of choice was a dagger, though they weren't above using poison or something else now and again. They were trained in every method of killing from an early age. Think of them as Muslim Ninjas, and you've got the picture. They were fanatics, an isolated, minority sect even among the Shia. They believed they were the only ones with a true interpretation of Muhammad's teachings."

  "How many were there?"

  "No one knows."

  Carter massaged his throbbing temples. "They can't possibly still exist."

  Stephanie said, "I'm thinking of Sherlock Holmes."

  "This isn't a movie, Steph."

  "Don't be an asshole, Nick. What I mean is Holmes said that if the possible is eliminated, only the impossible remains. Something like that. If it is the assassins, they exist in the modern world, even though everyone thinks it's impossible."

  "If they still exist and have been hiding out for hundreds of years, they're pretty good at it. How do we get a handle on them?"

  Selena frowned. "We need more information about them. I know where we might start."

  "Where?"

  "In Mali."

  "Mali? What's in Mali?"

  "The Ahmed Baba Institute. It's a library in Timbuktu with a collection of Arabic manuscripts and papers going back to the thirteenth century. You want to know something about Muslim history in the Middle Ages, that's the source."

  Nick saw her excitement. Pure research on obscure texts, what she'd done for years. It had brought her world wide academic recognition.

  "You want to go to Timbuktu?"

  "If there's any contemporary historical reference to what really happened to the Hashishin, it's the best place to look for it. All you can find anywhere else is standard history. That won't help us."

  Stephanie flicked away lint from her dark suit. Nick remembered when she'd shown up for work sporting bright colors. Now she was all business.

  Selena continued. "Steph, I need a research permit. They're very protective of those manuscripts. It shouldn't be hard with my credentials. I gave a lecture two years ago to an international conference on Islamic history and language and I've been invited to speak again when the next one comes up. I could use my real identity and say I was doing research for that."

  Stephanie made a note. "We can arrange that."

  "She can't go alone, Steph. I'll go with her. We've got advisors in Mali, the government's friendly. We can send our pistols by diplomatic pouch."

  "Damn it, Nick. You're a Director now. You're not supposed to go off somewhere where you could get shot at or captured. Besides, all the intelligence agencies in the world will be looking for these people. They can find them."

  "The other agencies don't have Selena. This is a tactical decision and it's my call. She doesn't have enough field experience to go alone. Ronnie and Lamont are out of it. That leaves me."

  Selena waved her hand. "Excuse me, I'm right here." Her face was flushed. "You don't think I can take care of myself?"

  "That's not the point. You're a rookie. This will be your first time in Africa. Consider it part of your training."

  Selena looked at him, nodded once. Carter knew he'd hear about it later.

  "Nick..."

  "I'm going, Steph."

  Stephanie sighed. She knew it was hopeless when Nick made up his mind. She let it go.

  "You're too well known in the Muslim world. You'll need a cover legend, a disguise."

  It was true. After Jerusalem, he was a high priority target for the fanatics.

  "We'll figure it out," he said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Carter and Selena left the Project and headed back into town. She'd gotten another Mercedes to replace the one shot up by the Chinese. A coupe. Fast, burgundy red, almost the color of blood. The inside of the car was leather comfortable and warm. Outside, it had begun snowing. The whisper of the wipers and the quiet background of the heater filled the car against the noise of Selena's silence. Nick kept his thoughts to himself. When she finally spoke, her voice was tight.

  "Why do you think I can't take care of myself?"

  "I don't think that."

  "Yes you do. You called me a rookie back there."

  "You are a rookie. Africa is a mess. Anything can happen there. You don't know yet what it's like to go in as an agent. You have to assume everyone wants to kill you."

  "They tried pretty hard in Tibet."

  "That was different. Ronnie and I are experienced in special ops and it was that kind of mission. So was Argentina. You did great, more than great. But covert field work isn't the same. You don't have any experience in that."

  "You forget my research took me to a lot of dangerous places without getting hurt. Including Africa."

  "Look, in the field you can't trust anyone. You can't believe things are what they appear to be. You have to develop constant awareness. You have to see everything with a different eye, looking for the false gesture, the wrong word, the concealed knife. You always assume someone is after you, even if they aren't."

  "This is just a library."

  "A library in the middle of a Muslim country full of terrorists, where you want to look for information on a bunch of terrorist assassins. If anything's there do you think they don't know about it? Do you think they aren't watching? You have to assume they are, because if you don't you could end up dead."

  Selena was getting angry. Nick knew the signs. "Why do you assume I can't figure that out for myself?"

  Carter felt his face get tight. Blood pressure going up. "God damn it, Selena, it's not about that. Like I said, this is the first time you've done something like this. You think you know what I mean but you don't."

  "Just another dumb woman, huh?"

  "God damn it..."

  They were a few blocks from Nick's apartment in D.C. She braked hard and came to a stop.

  "I think you can find your way home from here."

  Nick got out and slammed the door. Selena pulled away in a fishtail spray of slush and snow.

  The guard took one look as Nick came in and went back to his paper. Carter smoldered as he rode the elevator up to his floor. He let himself in and walked over to the bar. He poured a double Irish and drank most of it down. He stood at the window and watched the snow and waited for the whiskey to do its work.

  What the hell was it with women, anyway? It was simple, wasn't it? He knew what he was doing and she didn't. Why couldn't she see that? He was trying to help her, not criticize her.

  He'd have to get this straight with her before they went to Mali. It was hard to sort out what was personal and what wasn't. As her boss, he couldn't let her refuse to hear what he said. That could compromise the mission. As her lover, he was just plain pissed.

  He poured another whiskey and sat down. He thought about food, but his stomach was in knots. He got up and put on some music. Miles Davis. He liked Davis and Coltrane and Horace Silver and John Desmond. Carter settled back in the chair again and sipped his whiskey.

  Goddamn it, he'd never come close to understanding the women in his life. Except for Megan. Megan was different. But Megan was dead.

  He glanced at a picture taken a few months ago of his mother and his sister, Shelley. His mother looked vague, his sister like she'd eaten something unplea
sant. He thought about his mother. She was going downhill with Alzheimer's. A few weeks before, he'd had a blow out argument with Shelley and her asshole husband. They wanted to put her in a home and sell her house. Prime property in Palo Alto. They couldn't wait to get their hands on the money, but they couldn't do it without him. They'd had to agree to 24/7 live in help instead. Carter could afford it, now.

  At least Shelley had stopped needling him about his work, now that she knew he wasn't just another Washington bureaucrat. After Jerusalem, there was no way to keep her in the dark. She didn't know exactly what he did, but she knew paper pushers didn't end up on CNN and carry guns and hang out with the President. Guns or not, she still defended their father. She still tried to bully Nick with the big sister act. She was a pain in the ass. He wished it were different.

  Another woman problem. Carter was tired of thinking about it. He got up and opened the refrigerator, found some cold Chinese take out and ate it. He poured another whiskey, sat down in his chair and tried to read. The words kept blurring. To hell with it. He'd been up since three in the morning. He got undressed and went to bed.

  He dreamed the dream.

  The rotors echo from the sides of the valley. The village is there again, the same worthless, dust-blown cluster of crappy buildings. It bakes in bright Afghan sun, the light glinting from sharp brown hills that circle it. A single dirt street runs down the middle.

  Like always, he drops from the chopper and hits the street running. Like always, his M4 is up by his cheek, his Marines behind him. Houses line both sides of the street. On the left is the market, ramshackle bins and hanging cloth walls. A cloud of flies swarm the butcher’s stall.

  He's in the market. He can smell his own stink, the adrenaline sweat of fear. He keeps away from the walls. A baby cries somewhere. The street is deserted.

  Men rise up on the rooftops and begin shooting at him. The market stalls turn into a firestorm of splinters and plaster and rock exploding from the sides of the buildings.

  A young child runs toward him, screaming about Allah. He has a grenade. Carter hesitates. The boy cocks his arm back and throws as Nick shoots him. The boy's head erupts in a fountain of blood and bone. The grenade drifts through the air in slow motion...everything goes white...

  Carter came awake, shouting, slick with sweat. The grenade had left ridges of scar tissue on his body. It had left his mind scarred in ways that couldn't be seen. The flashbacks didn't happen much anymore, except when he was asleep. He got up and walked naked into the bathroom. He showered, shaved, got dressed and made coffee.

  He hated the dream. He hated that he'd killed that kid. It didn't do any good to tell himself it was self defense, or that bad things happened in war. It didn't do any good to tell himself there wasn't a choice.

  Carter didn't believe in religion. He didn't think redemption for what he did in life could be found in the words of men, even if they were supposed to have the blessings of God. That was exactly what the Jihadists believed, and look what the results were. If there was such a thing as redemption he'd have to find it in himself. If it was in there, he hadn't found it yet. For now, he'd try and stop the people who sent children out with grenades from doing it again. One terrorist at a time. Maybe that was redemption.

  He waited for the comfort of dawn.

  The phone rang.

  "Yes."

  "It's me."

  He wasn't sure what to say. "Where are you?"

  "At the hotel." Selena kept a suite of rooms at the Mayflower. Neither of them were ready to live together full time. Maybe they never would.

  "I'm sorry about earlier," she said. "I guess I'm a little stressed these days."

  "I'm not trying to tell you how to run your life."

  "I know."

  "I worry about you. I don't want you getting killed. Maybe I ride you too hard."

  "Is that an apology? We knew this would come up. It's not the first time. But I know what I signed up for. I know there are lots of things I have to learn. I'm not dumb."

  "You're anything but dumb."

  "Then give me credit for it."

  "You have to..." He stopped, began again. "It's important you don't take it the wrong way if I tell you something. I've been doing this for a long time. I have to treat you the same as I would anyone new. I can't change that because we're lovers."

  "What does that mean, Nick? We're lovers because we sleep together?"

  "I thought so."

  "Maybe there's more to it than that." She hung up.

  CHAPTER SIX

  They took commercial air to Mali's capitol at Bamako and a connecting flight to Timbuktu. Stephanie had made arrangements. Their pistols would be waiting for them at the hotel.

  Carter wore jeans and a short sleeved plaid shirt, a baseball cap and Ray Bans. He had a thick black beard and mustache that made him look like pictures he'd seen of Civil War soldiers. No one would recognize him. According to his passport he was John Depp. Selena traveled under her own name.

  Six hundred years ago Timbuktu had been the crossroads of the Western Sahara, the capitol of an empire. Now it was a fly-ridden shadow of its former glory, plagued by drought, poverty, heat and the encroaching desert. Except for adventurous tourists and Islamic scholars, it was a place the world ignored.

  Every year the sands of the Sahara drew closer. In time the city would vanish under the dunes. From what he saw from the air, Carter didn't think it would be much of a loss. As they came in to land they flew over the burned out wreckage of a twin engine cargo plane near the end of the runway. It brought bad memories. He pushed them away.

  They stepped through the gate. Two men in police uniform carrying M-16s blocked their way.

  "Depp? Connor?"

  "Yes."

  "You will come with us."

  Selena and Nick looked at each other.

  "Where?" Carter said.

  "Come with us. Someone wishes to speak with you."

  The two policemen led them to a door marked Airport Security in bold white letters and knocked. A deep voice responded.

  "Come."

  The voice belonged to a large, powerful man the color of dark chocolate. He sat behind a large desk. He sweated. The sweat beaded on his round face and trickled under the soiled collar of his shirt.

  The sweating man informed them with satisfaction that his name was Colonel Samake. He wore a loose, brown suit that strained over his massive frame. His hands were massive, broad and powerful. He gestured at two wooden chairs.

  "Please. Sit." They sat.

  Sand gritted on the floor under Carter's boots. A tiny fan stirred papers on Samake's desk. It did nothing for the oppressive heat. Carter figured him for a security watchdog from Bamako. The two policemen stood by the door. They seemed nervous, as if they might make a mistake standing there.

  "I wish to welcome you to our country, Doctor Connor. You are here to pursue research at the Institute?" Samake's voice was resonant, deceptively soft for such a big man.

  "Yes, Colonel. For a presentation at the Islamic International Conference in Istanbul."

  "That conference is two years away."

  "Preparation is always lengthy." Carter kept silent. Something was going on here besides a welcome wagon.

  "How long do you intend to stay?" Samake smiled, showing blunt, powerful teeth.

  "It's difficult to say. Perhaps a week. We'd also like to do a little sightseeing. I've never been to Mali before."

  Small talk.

  "And Mister Depp? He is your assistant?"

  "Yes. He helps me organize my research and takes care of travel arrangements, lodging, those sorts of things." She turned to Nick. "Don't you, Johnny?"

  Nick looked down at the floor. "That's right, Doctor."

  She looked away from him before he'd finished speaking. Dismissive. Nick admired her act. A gopher under a woman's thumb. No threat to Samake or anyone else. Nick almost laughed.

  "Colonel, it is so nice of you to welcome us."

&n
bsp; Selena stroked the man's ego. Almost flirting with him. Samake folded his big hands in front of him and leaned forward. He had an earnest expression. A sincere friend, about to give advice.

  Bullshit, Carter thought.

  "I must advise you to avoid the northern part of our country, should you decide on venturing out of Timbuktu."

  "Oh?"

  "There are temporary difficulties with bandits in that area. It is not safe for foreigners. It would be a shame if anything happened to such a distinguished visitor."

  Carter's ear burned. That had been a veiled threat. It would have sounded like friendly advice to a real tourist. The message was clear. Don't go to the north.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  An hour later they'd checked into their hotel. Carter looked out at the dusty courtyard. Forty Euros a night for a room with two questionable narrow beds and a fan. Selena had the room next to his.

  Timbuktu had a grand total of six hotels. None of them met a reasonable international standard, but this one wasn't bad. There was a pleasant outdoor terrace and a second floor balcony restaurant with a view. His room had a private bath and the fan worked. There was a fine dusting of sand everywhere, adding to the exotic ambience of being in one of the world’s legendary destinations.

  Selena knocked on the door and came in.

  "It's hard to get used to that beard. You look like a pirate."

  "Johnny Depp, at your service. It itches." At least they'd decided skin dye wasn't necessary. Westerners weren't unusual in Mali. "Johnny?" he said.

  "Well, it worked, didn't it? Colonel what's his name never gave you a glance after that."

  "Samake. He doesn't want us out of his sight and he doesn't want us going north. It could just be advice to an important tourist, but I think there's more to it than that. He's right about the north being a bad place to go."

  "Why?"

  "That's AQIM country."

  "AQIM?"

  "It's a terrorist group. AQIM stands for Al-Qaeda in the Maghreb. They're a bunch of thugs. That area is a major route for drugs from South America headed for Europe. AQIM finances their ops by protecting the shipments. They like to kidnap westerners stupid enough to go up there and hold them for ransom or kill them. If there aren't any tourists, they ambush border patrols to keep busy. There aren't many of those, now."