by Alex Archer
Hendricks took a breath and wondered how he was going to start this conversation. On the way over in his car, he’d had second thoughts. But in the end, he’d had nowhere else to go. Thabit couldn’t be allowed to run free anymore.
“You’re smoking again,” she said.
“Just started back today. I’ll quit again.”
She smiled at him. “You always had the willpower to do things like that. Some of us have to live with our addictions. I heard about your protégé today,” she said softly.
Hendricks wasn’t surprised. If she hadn’t been plugged into what happened in the Agency, she wouldn’t have been the person he’d needed.
“I’m sorry.”
Nodding, Hendricks took in a breath that tasted like tobacco fumes, then rinsed it out of his mouth with the Scotch. “I’m sure you didn’t let him go in without telling him it was a hard business.”
“I didn’t.”
“Sometimes things are just what they are.”
Hendricks stared into her brown eyes. “I remember telling you that once upon a time.”
A small, almost fragile smile flitted across her face. “When I was summarily dismissed from the Agency all those years ago, yes, you did.”
“I helped you kill those men. Outside of CIA purview.”
“You did. Only they didn’t cut you loose.”
Sophie sipped her coffee again, buying time.
Hendricks waved a hand. “I’ve heard the Agency hires you for black-bag jobs off the books.”
“Flatterer.”
“But it’s true.”
Some of the humor returned. “I can neither confirm nor deny. Isn’t that how it goes?”
Hendricks took a deep breath. “I want Habib ibn Thabit dead.”
Sophie tapped the monitor with her painted fingernails and brought up footage from the attack in Algeria earlier that day. “I took the liberty of searching through your casework to find out why you might be coming to see me today.” Sophie regarded him. “This is all I could come up with.”
On the monitor, the alley was still filled with dead men. His hand holding the Scotch shook slightly, but if Sophie noticed she was gracious enough to pretend she hadn’t.
“The CIA wants Thabit alive,” she probed. “They think he’s the linchpin they can use to ferret out more terrorists.”
“I lost a good man trying to do that very thing. I’m not prepared to accept that loss. I want him avenged.”
Sophie leaned by and crossed her arms, sympathy in her eyes. “This isn’t a revenge business. You told me that at the academy, as I recall.”
“Revenge isn’t the Agency’s business. You and I know there are other things at work in the world. I helped you with yours. I need help with mine.”
For a long, quiet moment, Sophie stared at him. “Thabit is a ghost. I don’t have anything more on him than you do.”
“I have something else.” Hendricks had kept the link out of his reports. After Paul’s loss, that omission would be almost understandable. And at any rate, he was on his way out. If things went badly, he could opt for early retirement. But the pieces would have already been put into play to take down Thabit.
“What?”
“Thabit has a special interest that no one else knows about. It fell into my lap today. I’ve kept it out of the reports for the moment. I think he’ll expose himself.”
“And if you’re wrong about that?”
Hendricks shook his head. “Then I’m out of options and the man is untouchable.”
“What do you have?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “There’s a female archaeologist, Annja Creed, who seems to have discovered something in Morocco that has captured Thabit’s interest.”
“What?”
Hendricks shrugged. “A body. Some kind of document. At this point, that’s all I know. And that Thabit is starting to move heaven and earth to find out more about her discovery.”
Sophie didn’t take notes. But she touched the monitor and brought up a website featuring Annja Creed and the cable TV show Chasing History’s Monsters. “A very attractive young woman.”
“Yes.”
“If I agree to this, you’re going to be putting her in harm’s way.”
“She’s already in Thabit’s sights. She could very well be in harm’s way now and this effort could save her.”
“This is a mercenary business, as you know. Where’s the payday?”
“Thabit is the payday.” Hendricks had anticipated this. “I can give you some of the particulars of Thabit’s bank accounts. We have identified some of them in the Caymans and in Zurich, but we can’t touch them. You can.”
“Once I have Thabit, perhaps. But only if we take him alive.”
“Keep him alive long enough for that.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“Upward of nine million. And that’s only what we’ve been able to discover. There will undoubtedly be more.”
Sophie tapped a fingernail on the monitor, then caught herself and stopped. “It’s an intriguing proposition. Do we have an in for Annja Creed?”
Hendricks let out a slow breath and felt some of the weight shift off his shoulders. He was almost confident he had Sophie where he wanted her.
“The archaeological team she was working with has been kidnapped by raiders. The Erfoud police and the Moroccan military haven’t exactly been forthcoming with help.”
Sophie nodded. “Good. I like that.” She smiled a little. “A search-and-rescue mission is always a good place to start.”
Hendricks spread his hands. “That’s what I have. That’s all of it. If it’s not enough, tell me.”
She looked at him quietly. “It’s enough. You knew that before you came here. But you need to know something in return.”
He waited.
“I want the paycheck here. I’m not emotionally involved in this thing. The man I put on it won’t be, either.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
Hendricks immediately understood she could only be talking about Rafe MacKenzie. MacKenzie had also been cut by the Agency a few years ago. They’d used him primarily for wetwork, and MacKenzie had developed a taste for it that bordered on the psychopathic. Hendricks had handled the man, and had later taken point on ousting him from the CIA.
If Paul Gentry was the good son that Hendricks had never had, Rafe MacKenzie was the bad one. Annja Creed wouldn’t just be in harm’s way. He would be trapping her between two forces that could crush her.
“Either way, I’m taking this deal,” Sophie said matter-of-factly. “At this point, you don’t have a choice. With or without those bank account records, I’m sending MacKenzie after Thabit. He’s already in Mauritania. He can be in Erfoud by morning. After he finishes up his current assignment.”
Chapter 10
Nouakchott, Mauritania
Northern Africa
Rafe MacKenzie stared through the mud-and-bug-smeared window of the twenty-year-old Toyota SUV they were using for the op. Beneath the dented and paint-splotched exterior, a specially enhanced engine and transmission were protected by a reconditioned frame and underbody that had been strategically lined with bulletproof armor.
Beside him, in the driver’s seat, Yahya bore down on the accelerator.
MacKenzie patted the slight man on the shoulder. “Slow down.”
“But I will lose the car.” Yahya was young and he loved the hunt. He reminded MacKenzie of a jaguar, sleek and dark and deadly. He didn’t mind scaring those who fell into his clutches, and he was skilled in torture. He was also a good driver, but he lacked patience in traffic.
“You will not lose the car.” MacKenzie settled back
into his seat and watched the gridlock along avenue Abdel Nassir. They were following the street in from Nouakchott International Airport to the center of the city.
“The traffic is impossible.”
“The traffic is normal. Besides, we know where the diplomat is going.”
“Unless he stops somewhere.”
“Where would he stop?”
Yahya tightened his fists on the steering wheel.
“Just breathe. Everything is going to be fine.” On most days, MacKenzie didn’t let the Mobile, Alabama, accent surface. Every now and again, though, he heard it when he got tired or when he got close to someone.
At thirty-four, he wasn’t old enough to be Yahya’s father, but he often thought of the younger man as a little brother. For the past three years, he’d trained Yahya’s rage into something more focused. A weapon.
Yahya had raised himself on the streets of Cape Town, and MacKenzie—raised by a single mother in poverty in the U.S.—had taken a shine to the young man while on an op there. Yahya was the only one of MacKenzie’s current mercenaries who stayed with him on every operation. With the others, it was only business.
“We have another job after this one is finished.” MacKenzie brought that up only to give Yahya something to think about while he drove.
“We do?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Morocco.”
Yahya changed lanes smoothly and pulled past a slower moving truck. Growing up as he had, he worried about the future, about the next job. He checked his mirrors, then pulled back into the lane he’d left, making space for himself. The truck driver behind them laid on his horn.
“Patience.”
“I will not lose that car.”
The diplomat’s black sedan glided through traffic. The driver was obviously skilled. He was Chinese, according to the intel packet MacKenzie had gotten from his ops broker, and had driven for the diplomat for three years. Some of that time had been in Hong Kong. The traffic there was bad.
During the years MacKenzie had worked for Sophie since getting kicked out of the CIA, he had never known her to give misinformation. That was why he never contested her percentage of the take. She was worth every cent.
The next job presented the biggest payday MacKenzie had ever stood to receive. Not that he was looking to retire anytime soon. He enjoyed his work.
“I have not been to Morocco.” Yahya was distracted now, and that curbed some of his impatience.
“I have.”
“What is it like?”
“Not much different than this place.” MacKenzie waved at the city.
“The languages?”
“Not so much different, either.” Yahya’s facility with languages was another reason MacKenzie had taken him on. Like MacKenzie, Yahya learned languages phonetically, picking them up almost as if by osmosis. Of course, he could neither read nor write in them, but for what they did, those skills were not so important. Surviving inside a culture or community long enough to take down a target was all that was necessary.
“Sounds good.”
“It is good.” MacKenzie reached under his seat and brought up the H&K MP5 he’d hidden there. He kept the machine pistol in his lap at the ready, hidden under a jacket. He had a
9 mm pistol holstered at his waistband in back.
His sat phone rang and he answered it because it was Sophie and she would have news.
“Yes.”
“Can you speak?”
“This line is not secure.” MacKenzie told her that out of habit. She never said anything over any phone line that could be used against her.
“I have eyes on your package.”
“Good.” That meant someone was watching over Annja Creed. MacKenzie wasn’t truly interested in that and thought it was overkill. From what he’d seen of the woman’s file, she was nothing. A minor celebrity who had stumbled onto something too big for her.
Habib ibn Thabit presented the true danger. The man had to be handled just so, before he got a chance to establish himself or take the woman.
“Shall I set up an appointment?”
“Tell her I will be in touch no later than tomorrow morning.”
“You can make the meeting?”
“Yes. What I have to do here won’t take much longer.” MacKenzie watched the speeding car ahead of them.
“Keep me apprised of the situation.”
“Of course.” She always said that, too, but she knew he wouldn’t tell her anything unless he wanted to. The click in his ear told him that she’d broken the connection. He put the sat phone away and nodded to Yahya. “All right.”
Yahya grinned and bore down on the accelerator.
Chapter 11
Erfoud
The Kingdom of Morocco
Dining out turned into a working dinner. Annja found a small restaurant not far from her hotel and settled in. Beautiful and ornate teal, yellow and maroon tile covered the inner courtyard floor and walls. There were no windows on the first floor because all that would have been within view were the narrow, twisting alleys that separated the businesses and dwellings. The restaurant was off the beaten path, so there were only a few adventurous tourists among the patrons. The rest were Moroccan families.
The restaurant provided dining inside, as well, but Annja preferred the open spaces. There was more room, and although there was a chill, it wasn’t cold enough to be uncomfortable. With her phone and her computer fully charged, and with the mini satellite receiver functioning, she was in total work mode.
She wore a microphone headset but kept one of the earpieces off center so she could hear the activity around her. She didn’t like being deaf anywhere outside her loft, or in an area where she didn’t trust the security.
She opened up her Skype account and called Dr. Ernest Woolcot, an acquaintance at Harvard who specialized in Middle Eastern history, particularly the caliphate.
The call didn’t go through immediately, and she was about to leave a message and log off when Woolcot accepted the connection and the computer monitor opened to a picture-in-picture. The professor was in his late sixties, dark skinned from his Saudi Arabian mother and his African-American father. His father had been a lawyer working with the Kingdom of Saud when he’d met and fallen in love with Woolcot’s mother, a much-removed member of the House of Saud. Once, on a lark, Woolcot had worked out how many “mishaps” would have to occur for him to be anywhere near the throne. He’d explained it to Annja over lunch during one of her visits to the archives there, and went on to say it would be easier to put together a moon landing.
“Annja Creed, this is an unexpected pleasure.” Woolcot was bald but had magnificent eyebrows over his dark brown eyes and a carefully trimmed gray beard. He wore a dark turtleneck with the sleeves pushed to midforearm.
“Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all.” Woolcot waved idly to a stack of papers beside him. “Grading students’ work. Separating those who actually put some time and effort into their assignments from those who watched something on the Discovery Channel.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You’ll be happy to know that I seem to have quite a few fans of your television show in my classes these days.”
“That’s a good thing?”
“When they’re quoting most of your pieces, yes. When they’re sourcing that Kristie Chatham woman, not so much. And I have the distinct feeling that some of your content has been...molested.”
“Molested is a good word.” Annja grinned.
“I thought it might be.”
Annja took a sip of her tea. “As you might have guessed, this isn’t a social call.” She felt guilty. Woolcot was a friend and she had a bad habit of only calling friends when she needed something.
“A social call usually
involves some kind of meal. I see you’re in the midst of one.”
“Sorry, I had to eat.”
“Not a problem. So, if this is not a social call, let us agree that this is at the very least a pleasant diversion. What can I help you with?”
Quickly, Annja outlined yesterday’s discovery, but left out the ambush by the Bedouin raiders. “Have you heard of Abdelilah Karam?”
Woolcot leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head while he mulled the name over. Then he shook his head slightly. “Should I have?”
“If you haven’t, then he couldn’t have been very important.”
“Yet someone killed him and left his body in Morocco.”
“Yeah.”
“Curious.”
“That’s what I’m thinking, too.”
“Would you like me to do some legwork on this fellow?”
“I don’t want to be an imposition.”
Woolcot smiled and shook his head. “One thing you definitely are not, Annja, is an imposition. Surprising, yes, challenging, yes, but never an imposition.” He paused and took a breath. “I would like to propose an addendum, in return for my services.”
“What?”
“You can have the glory of the find. That’s already yours. But, if possible, I would like to coauthor a paper on what we may turn up. I’m afraid the publish-or-perish life of an educational functionary is never quite finished. The wolf is always at the door, and this sounds promising.”
Annja grinned. “Claim that all you want. I happen to know you like seeing your name in print.”
The professor sighed with good-natured acceptance and spread his hands. “Permit me at least a little ego.”
“Does an ego come in that size?”
Woolcot chuckled. “Probably not, but this way I will get to have my cake and eat it, too. My colleagues will be scandalized if this turns out to be something and my name is on a paper with Annja Creed, cohost of Chasing History’s Monsters. I would enjoy tweaking some of their noses. There are people in this department who are entirely too full of themselves.”
