by Alex Archer
“Not worried about being tarnished by association with pop culture archaeology?”
“I relish the opportunity and pray that we meet some kind of success. Those selfsame colleagues who would be looking down their noses at me would also be insanely jealous.”
The coming night had started to filter darkness into the courtyard, and the air had grown considerably chillier. Annja thought again of the bath she’d put off and wanted to get back to her hotel room.
The loud voices of muezzins from the surrounding minarets broadcasted over speaker systems around the city, calling all the Muslim faithful to worship. Around Annja, several of the families got up to go, carrying their prayer rugs with them.
On the computer screen, Woolcot checked his watch. “I should probably let you go. I have a dinner date with a woman who loves me and puts up with me for God alone knows what reason.”
Annja smiled, thinking of Woolcot’s petite wife, an English professor, who shared his love of learning and teaching. “Tell Miriam I said hello.”
“I will, and the next time you are here, you should stop in for dinner. She would love to see you.”
“I will.” Annja said her goodbye, then broke the connection and gathered her things.
* * *
OUT IN THE ALLEY, ANNJA spotted a man watching her from the deepening shadows. For half a block on her way back to her hotel, the man kept pace with her.
She studied him in the glass windows she passed. He was too well dressed to be a mugger, but he wasn’t a professional man by any means, either. He looked like a nicely dressed thug in slacks, a light jacket and walking shoes. Guessing from the look and the clothing, the man was American or European, with an easy way of walking. He kept his hands in his pockets, but there was plenty of room under the jacket for a weapon.
Annja settled her backpack over her shoulders and turned at the next alley, moving quickly now. Once in the shadows next to an overflowing bin, she shucked out of the backpack and pressed back into the wall.
The man came around the corner still at the same easy pace. That told Annja he already knew where she was ultimately heading. That was unsettling. She stepped out of the shadows behind him. Before she could say anything, he whipped around, spinning to his right with a short-bladed knife glinting in his fist.
Annja deflected the knife blow with her right forearm, bent her knees to slide beneath his arm and delivered a left jab to his short ribs that felt as though she’d struck a side of beef. The man’s breath puffed out in a ragged gasp, but he stayed on his feet and danced back.
He dropped the knife to the cobblestones and smiled. He was good-looking and he knew it. Possibly in his early thirties.
“Hey, hey, no foul, Miss Creed.”
Annja held her fists up, ready to close or retreat if she had to, though she had no intention of retreating. She also kept listening for footsteps in case the man hadn’t been as alone as she’d thought. Or if he’d been in radio communication with someone.
“Who are you?”
He shook his head. “You don’t need to know me. I’m just a messenger. Don’t kill the messenger.”
“You came around with that knife pretty quickly.”
“You surprised me.” He winked. “Not a wise thing to do.”
“Neither is tailing someone.”
“I came to deliver a message.”
Annja waited.
“The local police aren’t going to do a lot to get your friends back. I have a...an associate...who can help you.”
“Why would your associate do that?”
“It’s his story. I’ll let him tell you.”
“Does he have a name?”
“You got a favorite?”
“Hortense.”
The man chuckled and lowered his hands. With slow deliberation, he bent, picked up his knife and made it vanish inside his jacket. “Good enough. He’ll love that. Hortense will be in touch tomorrow morning. If you’re nice, he might even buy you breakfast.”
“Am I going to see you again?”
“No.” The man tipped his head. “Good night, Miss Creed.” He turned and walked away, whistling.
Reluctantly, Annja watched him go, wondering just exactly what she had gotten herself involved with. The dig had already gotten complicated enough.
Chapter 12
“I have some information for you regarding Abdelilah Karam.” Ernest Woolcot sounded tired but excited the next morning.
Wearing a robe, with a towel wrapped around her wet hair, Annja checked the time on her computer. It was 7:47 a.m. locally, which meant it wasn’t yet three o’clock in Boston. “Seriously? You haven’t been to bed?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I started making calls to friends as soon as I got home from dinner.”
Annja walked over to the window and peered out at the city. Erfoud was already bustling with the morning crowd and the influx of tourists. From her hotel she could see the crowd swelling at the souk. Today was Saturday. The marketplace was going to do massive business. Vendors had set up tents, pushcarts and roped-off areas filled with rugs, fossils brought in from the Sahara Desert, olives, spices and handmade clothing.
“You kept other people up, as well? I’m betting Miriam was so glad I called last night.” Annja checked the front of the hotel visible from her room and tried to spot the man she’d encountered the night before. She couldn’t see him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there.
Or someone else.
The possibility left her feeling a little cold. But so did the fact that Inspector Khouri hadn’t called with any news of an immediate rescue of the archaeological team.
Annja had returned to the hotel and slept. She’d been without rest for too long, and sleeping no matter what was going on was something she’d learned to do in the orphanage and in the foster homes she’d been subjected to while growing up. Each of them had had their own cultures and languages and challenges. She’d been forced to learn to disassociate herself to keep from being overwhelmed.
“I got consumed with the hunt for Karam.”
Annja understood that. She’d liked that about the professor, and had, in fact, been counting on that when she’d called him.
“Would you care to know what I found out?”
Retreating from the window, Annja sat on the edge of the bed. “I’d love to hear what you found out.”
Annja took one of her journals from her backpack and opened it to a fresh page. She took out a pen from the case she carried. Later, she’d transcribe the notes to her computer, but the notebook shorthand worked when she didn’t have access to electricity. Or in case she got separated from her backpack. Redundancy was a necessary evil in the field. “I’m ready.”
“All right. From what I have learned, Karam was a historian of Muhammad and the first three caliphs.”
“That period of history covers at least from 630 CE to 661 CE, right?” Annja clarified. “When Ali died after being attacked in the Great Mosque of Kufa.”
“By Abd-al-Rahman ibn Muljam, one of the Kharijite assassins who tried to assassinate the three rulers of Islam at the time, yes. You know who the Kharijite assassins were, don’t you?”
“Kind of a catchall phrase for Muslims who rejected Ali ibn Abi Talid’s assumption of the caliphate. Loosely translates to ‘those who went out.’”
“Yes.”
“Karam wasn’t a young man. Assuming he might have started as an historian apprentice at thirteen or fourteen years, he had to have been in his eighties when he was traveling through Morocco. That could well account for why he didn’t finish his journey.”
She snorted. “He didn’t finish because someone bashed in the back of his skull.”
“Oh, yes. That fact had escaped me. But that does beg a question, doesn’t it?”
Annja wrote down the dates. “Who would murder an eighty-year-old man? Yeah, that one’s occurred to me, too.”
“The motive could have been robbery.”
“Robbers wouldn’t have left the coins on him.”
“Maybe there was something else Karam was carrying that the murderer wanted.”
“Okay, let’s go with that for a moment, but let’s turn it around. What was an eighty-year-old man doing so far from home? Did Karam have a family?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have that much information on his personal life. He wrote more about the Umayyad caliphs and Muhammad than he did about his own affairs.”
“How much of his material did you uncover?”
“There’s not a lot to be had, unfortunately, but it is all detailed. That’s why, if your hunt turns out to be productive in turning up other documents, many historians will be interested.”
“We’ll cross our fingers.” Annja was. She was more hopeful than she dared, but she knew at least part of that scroll was still out there waiting to be recovered. Unless Mustafa had destroyed it. “What do we have from Karam?”
“Surprisingly, one of the best finds was discovered on a Spanish galleon that washed up on the Scottish coastline in 1987. Ship’s records and artifacts led to a confirmation that the ship was one of those that was lost in the August storms that wreaked havoc on the Spanish Armada.”
“What was a document written by Karam doing on a Spanish ship? Not only is there a separation of hundreds of miles, but you’re talking about almost nine hundred years of history.”
“One of those passengers was an historian who had an interest in Muslim affairs. His papers had been locked up with the captain’s manifests, and all of that largely survived the storm and over four hundred years of being sunk.”
“It’s amazing what the sea holds on to.”
“And what she gives up. The historian wrote that he’d gotten Karam’s papers from Morocco while taking passage on the Spanish vessel.”
“How?”
“Think about the time frame, Annja. The British and the Spanish were fighting each other over control of the Atlantic Ocean, and privateering was rampant, but they weren’t the only pirates sailing those waters.”
“The Barbary corsairs.” Annja shook her head. She should have remembered that.
“Exactly. The corsairs were operating from Tunis, Tripoli and Algiers, which are not so far from Morocco.”
“Throw in the fact that a lot of the Barbary corsairs were actually Europeans, and it’s easy to make a case that your Spanish historian spent time here.”
“His name was Philip Gardiner, and he was actually an Englishman.”
“An Englishman on a Spanish pirate ship?”
“Yes. That’s not so unbelievable. Have you heard of Henry Mainwaring?”
Annja thought for a moment. “The English privateer turned pirate who got pardoned by King James I.”
“Mainwaring was indeed an English pirate, but he was also awarded Letters of Marque by Philip II, the then-king of Spain. King Philip planned the attempt to overthrow Elizabeth I after she supported the Dutch Revolt against Spain in 1587. He used Mainwaring against the British, before King James offered royal forgiveness.”
“So Gardiner was on a Spanish ship when it went down in the Atlantic?”
“Yes. One of my colleagues works at the University of Aberdeen and has been a prodigious researcher of Muslim history. He was quite excited when I told him you’d possibly found Karam’s body and part of a document. I sent him a copy of the scroll that you sent me. He’s quite good with Kufic. He managed to translate what you had.”
“He did?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid there isn’t much. In the fragment you have, Karam sets up his case that he was chased from his home by assassins.”
“Why?”
“The document doesn’t say. That’s part of the missing information. But Robert told me that if you could get your hands on the rest of it—or any more of it at all—he’d be deeply indebted to you if he could see it.”
“That’s not a problem. My Kufic is a little weak.”
“So is mine.” Woolcot yawned. “At any rate, that’s where we stand at the moment, but I shall endeavor to keep digging. We still have to figure out how those documents came into Philip Gardiner’s hands, and why the one you found was left in the Atlas Mountains. You’ll contact me when you find out more?”
“Definitely. And can I get the translation your friend sent you?”
“Of course. I’ll email it to your cloud address as soon as I hang up.”
* * *
ANNJA FORCED HERSELF to finish getting ready before sitting down at the computer. Within a few minutes, she was dressed in jeans, good hiking boots and a green pullover.
She pulled up the use.net accounts first. There had been some chatter, but nothing definite had emerged. She’d gotten more information from Woolcot.
A quick check for the GPS markers showed they were still in place outside Marrakech. Seeing them gave Annja hope. She was just about to call Inspector Khouri to check on a potential rescue effort when a knock sounded at the door.
Instantly on alert because it was early and she didn’t know anyone in the city, Annja approached the door and resisted the urge to peer through the peephole. People got hurt doing that. Even though no one could see in through the fish-eye lens, they could still see the shadow of someone standing there under the door.
She took hold of the door and pulled the sword into the room with her. “Who is it?”
“Hortense.”
The man’s voice sounded flat. Annja tried to place the accent but couldn’t.
“What do you want?”
“You have friends in trouble. I am here to help.”
“Why would you do that?”
The man paused and shuffled his feet. Even that small noise sounded irritated. “Because you need help. They need help. And if you don’t get it to them soon, they’re going to be dead. If they’re not dead already.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Do you have anyone else in mind for this job, Miss Creed? If so, I’ll be on my way. Otherwise, let me into the room so we can speak.”
Annja considered that for only a moment. The bottom line was that she didn’t have another choice. The police and the military weren’t likely to help, and Garin hadn’t yet returned her phone call. Reluctantly, she opened the door.
Chapter 13
The man standing in the hallway was tall, dark and handsome in a cold, distant way. He wore khaki cargo pants, hiking boots and a shirt unbuttoned over an olive-drab tank top. His hair needed cutting and his mutton chops were thick. There was a cruel curve to his full lips. Wraparound metallic green sunglasses covered his eyes.
He showed her his empty hands and she noticed the scarring over the knuckles and the old knife scar across his right palm that left the flesh puckered.
“Invite me in?” His voice was a rumble that came from deep inside his chest.
Annja let go of the sword, stepped back and opened the door.
He walked into the hotel room alone, then stood with his arms loosely folded.
Annja faced him, not giving an inch, but staying just out of his reach. “You know who I am.”
He smiled at her, but it was cold and empty. “Call me Mac.”
“Is that your name?”
“I’ll answer to it.”
“That’s not exactly reassuring.”
Mac dropped the smile. “Your friends don’t have a lot of time. That’s not reassuring, either. I thought you’d be more worried about them.”
“How did you find out about me?”
“I know a guy at the police department who keeps me informed about out
-of-towners who get into troubles they can’t handle. If I think I can do something, I offer my services.”
Annja got the sense that what he’d told her was close to the truth, but not the exact truth. She also knew how news could spread regarding foreigners. “I guess that guy’s name is another name I don’t get.”
“That’s how this works.”
Annja studied the man. The accent sounded more American now, and there was even a hint of the Old South in there. “You’re a mercenary.”
He smiled a little, as if surprised. “That’s blunt.”
“I like blunt.”
His shoulders lifted and dropped a fraction of an inch. “Sure. I’m a mercenary. That means I do what I’m paid to do. The fact that I’m still alive should tell you I’m good at it.”
“How much would you charge for something like this?”
“An extraction from a hostile situation?” Mac’s lips pulled back to expose his white teeth and a gold-capped incisor. “A lot.”
“I don’t have a lot.” Even as she said that, Annja wished that she had a means to raise money that would interest the man.
“I understand that. I had you checked out. You’ve got a little, but it would take time to get it. Anyway, I’m not after your money.” Mac walked over to the window and peered out, keeping himself pressed against the frame to present a low profile.
“I’ve known a few mercenaries. Generally they don’t volunteer their services for free.”
“I’m not. But you’re thinking about what you can raise yourself. There are other avenue streams involved in this operation.”
“What other avenue streams?”
“Mustafa doesn’t just trade in slaves. His group also sells guns. Guns, especially in this part of the country, have an immediate resale value.” Mac talked as if he was distracted, as if the sales pitch had already been presented and he was just running through it.
“How do you know about Mustafa? The police inspector I talked to yesterday didn’t mention that.”
“Because it’s my job to know things like that. And because that police inspector isn’t just going to volunteer information. If you want your friends back, you’ll have to trust that I can do what I say I can do. That I’m a professional.” Mac turned back to her. “When was the War of 1812?”
