Ancient Danger: Mata Hari Suspense Series #3

by Jo-Ann Carson

  “I think he believes that. Yes. And, Sadie, not only are you one of our best operatives, you are the only one who’s ever got close to him.”

  “And survived.” She remembered too well how Bakari buried his third wife’s head in the desert. A shiver ran up her spine.

  “You can reach him.” He hesitated. “Talk to him. Find out…”

  “Yeah, yeah, groom him. Get him to tell me his secrets so I can pass them on to the Company.” She shook her head. “You want me to be a honey pot, but it won’t work. He already knows I’m a spook. I’m just lucky he let me live.”

  Jeremiah steepled his hands on his desk. “I suspect he has… feelings for you.”

  Silence. How did Jeremiah always figure things out? She hadn’t said any of that stuff in her final report. Hadn’t even suggested it. But Jeremiah was bull’s-eye-right. Damn him. Bakari al-Sharif had the hots for her.

  After a minute Sadie said, “Okay, this is the way I see it. Rashida got better by the grace of God and maybe because she believed in the power of the ancient good luck charm her father brought her. The amulet returned to Egypt where I believe it belongs. No one died. Well, except Delilah who made the fatal mistake of crossing al-Sharif. I consider it a successful mission. Things get messy in our business.”

  “Battle. A successful battle, more or less. But the war isn’t over. Al-Sharif wants more power. We can’t let him continue to steal priceless treasures.”

  “Bakari al-Sharif will always want more power. That’s who he is. And what you call treasure, he calls power.”

  “Then you know we must stop him.”

  She shook her head again. “I’d like to stop all the bad people in the world, but I no longer think that’s possible; and more importantly I no longer think I have to be the one to do it. I don’t feel invincible anymore and I don’t believe the CIA has the right to do half of what it’s doing.”

  Jeremiah lowered his hands, leaned back and gripped the edge of his desk. “Then let me tell you about your stalker.” As the tone of his voice darkened her stomach tightened.

  “The man with the distinctive tattoo?”

  “Yeah. The tattoo is the insignia of the KOTL, the Keepers of the Light. Pronounced like hotel except starting with a k.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  He grimaced. “Until I researched the tattoo, I thought they were just parts of ancient lore, shadowy creatures in someone’s overactive imagination. Their sworn mission is to protect the arcane knowledge of the Emerald Tablets.”

  “Emerald tablets? Never heard of them, either.” She shifted her butt in the seat.

  “It’s the stuff of ancient legends. People believe that etched on emerald stones are documents that contain the essence of Heretica, the ancient Egyptian and Greek wisdom texts. Translations exist today, reportedly handed down through history, but no one knows what happened to the original tablets.”

  “Let me guess: except for the KOTL.”

  “You got it. They believe their sole purpose on earth is to protect the ancient texts and the wisdom contained within them.”

  “Sounds like a case for Indiana Jones.”

  “Perhaps, but we don’t have him. We have Mata Hari.” His smile spread. “You’re our secret, seductive weapon.”

  She shook her head. “Tell me about the tat.”

  “The Eye of Ra symbol comes from ancient Egypt and is a symbol for protection, royal power and good health. The green coloring of the triangle represents the Emerald Tablets. The three points on the triangle refer to the power structure within their organization. The top vertex points to the light, the left to Thoth, the god of knowledge and wisdom, and the right to themselves, the keepers.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “So they aren’t the sort of people you want watching you.”

  She wriggled her toes, trapped in heels. “Why would they want to?”

  “They are a cult. Cults are dangerous. Whenever you get a bunch of zealots following a leader because they believe in something intangible you got trouble. This group believes their mission is to ensure the safety and preservation of the tablets, which they claim to have locked away. They don’t make much noise, but we know they exist and we know they can be ruthless when crossed. Last month we found one of their leaders disemboweled. He’d set up a meeting with us to reveal information. I’m guessing it had to do with you. Somehow, Sugar, you have come onto their radar and they see you as a threat.”

  “I hadn’t heard of the Emerald tablets before now. How could I possibly be a threat to them?” She threw up her hands. “It sounds like the stuff of campfire stories. It could all be crap. I bet no one has ever seen the stones.”

  “There are some who believe they were written by the god Thoth, who then became the ruler of Atlantis.” Jeremiah’s eyes twinkled as he kept his voice steady.

  Sadie rolled her eyes. “And I’m the reincarnation of an Egyptian tomb cat?” She shrugged her shoulders. “What could I possibly have to do with wisdom texts?”

  Jeremiah’s focus shifted to his chess board and he moved his black knight. “To them, obviously something. Something worth killing you for. Don’t dismiss that. There is power in believing something is true, even if it’s not. They could, for example, kill you because they see you as a threat. Remember your stalker killed himself to hide what he knew.”

  “But why?” She felt her chest tighten.

  “Bakari al-Sharif? Could he have a connection?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Just listen to me. Al-Sharif’s been gathering amulets because he believes they give him power. But I suspect that upsets the KOTL, because they believe he’s threatening the natural world order or maybe because of something written on their tablets.”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “Yup, but you know I’m good at it. I look at the facts and ride them as far as they’ll take me, then I make a calculated hypothesis. It makes sense. I figure they’ve been watching al-Sharif and found you. Now they’re watching you.”

  “So throwing Ninja stars at me as I totter on top of a balcony railing was an elaborate warning from a group of fanatic wing-nuts worried I’m about to upset the balance of life on the blue planet?” Great more crazies for my list.

  Jeremiah’s mouth straight lined. “You’re still alive. That’s what’s important.”

  Sadie didn’t like the direction of this conversation. It was like being trapped inside a run-away car with no brakes, heading straight for a cliff. This really wasn’t what she needed right now, but her life did that to her. Her world wasn’t at all like the picture perfect place her cover-girl smile implied. She kept getting what she didn’t want over and over again. Her gut twisted.

  “The way I see it, if you help us stop Bakari al-Sharif you not only protect the world from his insatiable lust for power, you also fix your problem with the KOTL.”

  “I bite. What’s his target?”

  “Highclere Castle in England.”

  She swallowed and took a moment to comprehend. “The Victorian castle where they shoot Downton Abbey?”

  “Yes, the home of the eighth Earl of Carnarvon.”

  “And he has amulets?”

  “In 1922, his great, great grandfather, the fifth Earl of Carnarvon, and archaeologist Howard Carter discovered the tomb of Tutankhamen, the boy king of Egypt. In those days archaeologists more or less did what they wanted and the earl took many of the treasures home, feeling justified, as he’d put a lot of time and money into the excavation.

  Later his descendants sold most of them to the Met Museum in New York to help pay death taxes, but a few remain on exhibit in the castle. In 1987 more treasure was found in secret cupboards in the walls of the castle.

  “So Bakari is after something in the castle?”

  Jeremiah nodded. “Two weeks ago a maid found another hidden cubbyhole and made another discovery: a scarab pectoral made of precious jewels, wrapped in an ancient papyrus scroll. The experts believe it belonged
to Tutankhamen and it’s similar to the one housed in the British Museum, only in better condition. It’s official name is Nebkeheperure which means, ‘Re, the sun god, is lord of all,’. It’s also King Tut’s throne name.”

  “King Tut!!” She stretched her neck to the side. “Oh great. “Let me guess, again. Our friend, the arms dealer, has become obsessed with obtaining it.”

  “To save his daughter.”

  Sadie’s mouth went dry.

  “The Carnavon’s are having a gala coming-out party for the scarab. The plan is to hold a ceremony commemorating the handing over of the artifact to the British Museum. They will send it on tour to the world’s largest museums.” He toggled a key on his keyboard, and a picture of the scarab appeared on the large monitor behind his head, the one he used for briefings.

  Sadie leaned forward to get a good look. Truly magnificent. Gold, lapis lazuli, red carnelian and turquoise. A majestic beetle. Fit for a pharaoh. She mused about how odd it seemed for anyone to prize a beetle, but the ancient Egyptians believed them sacred. They believed they held magical protective and healing powers. Of course Bakari would want this. She twisted her neck, trying to clear her head.

  Sebastian wouldn’t like what she was thinking. Too bad for him. She looked at Jeremiah.

  He sat expressionless watching her face. She felt like a monkey in a zoo.

  “I’ll do it,” she said.

  9

  Chapter Nine

  New York City

  Sadie’s sparsely furnished New York apartment had been her home for over a decade. She dropped her bag on the charcoal- gray, leather wing chair by the door and headed straight for the espresso machine in the kitchen area.

  Pouring locally roasted coffee beans into the grinder she breathed in their scent as she gave them a good whirl. Minutes later the taste of a perfectly brewed cappuccino revived her spirits.

  Being hunted by a religious cult sucked.

  On her way to her leather sofa, she picked up the photo sitting on the coffee table. It had a glossy four by five picture of JaJa her son, not by blood or legal adoption, but by heart. He lived in Nigeria with missionaries. She supported him financially and hoped someday to become a larger part of his life. They had had a strange beginning and now he had a large piece of real estate in her heart.

  Sebastian had offered to get legal, international, adoption papers drawn up for her, but she told him not to. The boy was better off growing up in his own culture. She took another sip. He cared about what she wanted. She scrunched her mouth. Sebastian, the kindly giant. She loved the man so much her heart ached.

  Checking her phone she found a phone message from him and two text messages from her friend Mitchell. Both wanted her to call them. She groaned. Mitch could wait.

  Leaning back she looked at her phone. Would Sebastian understand what she’d just done? One way to find out. She punched in his number.

  He picked up after the first ring. “Where the hell are you? I went looking for you at the inn and they said you checked out. What the hell Sadie? I deserve better than this. Does our relationship mean so little to you?”

  She swallowed. “Sebastian, we need to talk.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I mean really talk, but not now, not over the phone.”

  He made a low grumble that resembled the sound of a motor chugging but not really starting.

  “Sebastian, I love you. With all my heart I love you. As I have loved no other. You mean the world to me… but sometimes…”

  “Sometimes?” Pain wrinkled the edges of his voice.

  Sweet Jesus. Hearing his pain ripped at her heart, but she had to say her piece. “I feel smothered. I have to be me.”

  “What exactly are you saying?”

  “I’m in New York. I just got in from seeing Jeremiah. I’m going undercover for the CIA, whether you like it or not.” She swallowed. “I’ll take down Bakari al-Sharif once and for all.”

  “Fuck.”

  “I could use support.”

  “Fuckin’ hell Sadie. I love you. I don’t want you to go after that geiten neuker.”

  Goat fucker. Lovely. Now he was swearing in Dutch. She sighed.

  “Mijn liefje I don’t want you hurt.”

  “My stubborn Frisian,” she said but in a tender voice. Sebastian was not just a large man physically, but also in spirit, larger than life. His people came from the north of Holland where only the strong survived. Sometimes—no, most of the time—he acted like a transported warrior from a by-gone era, with a strong set of beliefs and a conquering air.

  “I just want you safe.”

  “And beside you,” she said.

  “Always, beside me.”

  “Sebastian, after I take care of al-Sharif we can talk about this.”

  Silence. Ouch. Sebastian usually rambled. Where was his ramble?

  Her hand holding the cell trembled. “Sebastian?”

  “You don’t have to be so damned independent. You’ll get yourself killed if you go after guys like him. Let someone else do it.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you?” He growled. “If you go after that orifice…”

  Oh shit. “Don’t give me an ultimatum, Sebastian, I can’t…”

  “If you loved me as you say you do, you’d walk away from this. Screw the CIA. Be with me.”

  “Sebastian, I can’t let al-Sharif steal treasure. I have a relationship with him that I can work. The CIA needs me on this.”

  The phone went quiet for a minute. Then he said, “You know how to reach me. I don’t want to talk until you’re ready to listen.”

  The phone clicked off. She looked at it in her hand. A single tear ran down her cheek.

  She breathed in, breathed out. He’d come around. He had to.

  The Frisian Oath of Allegiance he’d stuck on the wall of his apartment came to her mind: “With five weapons shall we keep our land, with sword and with shield, with spade and with fork and with spear, out with the ebb, up with the flood to fight day and night against the North King and against the wild Viking, that all Frisians may be free, the born and the unborn, so long as the wind from the clouds shall blow and the world shall stand.” Every inch of Sebastian Wilde was stubborn Frisian.

  10

  Chapter Ten

  Cairo

  Bakari hadn’t slept for over twenty-four hours. Wearing black silk pajamas, he’d locked himself away in his office on the main floor of his three-century-old Cairo palace to consider his options. He did his best thinking when no one else was around. For the last eight hours he’d paced the finely woven Arabic rug in his bare feet, its plush texture registering on his skin but not his brain. It remained ransomed by the devil in its own private hell.

  In the center of the room, a neatly piled stack of paper sat on a six-foot-long polished mahogany desk waiting for attention, along with his Waterman pen, a gift from Rashida. He’d closed the bullet-proof curtains blocking the light of the sun and the rest of the world. While crystal chandeliers lit most of his home, this room had modern LED lighting in the ceiling and the walls, which he’d turned low so that the space looked muted, like a series of layered shadows at dusk. No music played over the speakers. The only sound in the room was the rumble of his empty stomach. He reached the wall, turned, and paced back again.

  How could he help his son? He’d always wanted a son. But this young man was so conflicted and so dangerous. Could Djeserit’s prophecy be true? Was he doomed to be an evil sorcerer? No. He was his son. It didn’t matter how many times he turned this idea around in his head it didn’t fit any sense of reality. Khalid was born of his blood. He’d help him. Somehow.

  The sound of the door lock releasing caught his attention. His brother Chasisi entered with his slow limp, shaking his head as if to tell Bakari he could have left the door open. Had he knocked on the door? Bakari couldn’t remember hearing anything. Damn, he hated being so distracted.

  Chas, born with one leg longer than the oth
er, moved slowly towards him. They embraced the way men do, hard and strong. Then they sat, Bakari behind his desk and Chasisi opposite in a wooden chair.

  A maid in a well-pressed uniform scurried into the room with a tray of tea and biscuits. Chas must have ordered this. She placed it on the edge of Bakari’s desk. Neither man acknowledged her. Without a word she turned and left the room, her head bent and looking at the floor.

  “Welcome back, brother,” Chasisi said.

  The sound of his familiar voice warmed Bakari. He pushed the button to open the window curtains, to get a good look at him. Blinding Egyptian sunlight streamed into the room.

  Chasisi wore a white robe and looked more like a poor merchant from the street market than a rich criminal. Like a chameleon, he had the ability to blend well into any environment and learn its secrets. This skill had been a great asset to the family business. He’d been head of security for the last ten years and Bakari had lost count of the number of times Chas had stopped assassination attempts on his life. His brother listened in places where walls didn’t have ears, knew all the comings and goings of the underworld, learned who to trust and whom not to trust. For the last week he’d been scouting out a new deal in Syria. He hadn’t shaved in a week. Removing his aviator sunglasses, he revealed bloodshot eyes.

  “It’s not like you to stay locked away for so long.” Chas’s tone deepened. “What’s wrong?”

  Where to start? Bakari sighed. “I met my son.”

  Chasisi nodded. He took out a package of his filthy cigarillos from his pocket, pulled one out and lit it.

  “He…” Bakari scratched his chin. “I…” He leaned back in his chair. “Where do I begin?”

  “I warned you his surroundings were decrepit.”

  Bakari nodded. “Khalid doesn’t look like a teenager.”

  “Ah, so that’s what bothers you. What would you expect of a boy who’s been raised by a crazy witch in Amsterdam, who thought she could rule the world with an ivory wand.”

  “He has our eyes and our chin.” The warmth of pride spread over Bakari’s face. The family resemblance was unmistakable. The young man was an al-Sharif, even if he didn’t have the name legally. “And he has Djeserit’s soft, cocoa-colored skin. But you know all this. You found him for me.” Bakari waved his hand in the air dismissing his own words.