by Unknown
The passenger-side door was opened with a flourish, a young man mumbling greetings in Korean while giving a theatrical bow. The same was done with the back door, only this time a gloved hand was proffered to Kia, who grabbed it and stepped out of the car. She smiled, bemused by the pageantry of it all. A third man reached for the driver-side door, but Jones glared at him and opened it himself. Strangely, this made the staff smile even wider, for they interpreted it to mean that Jones was treating them as equals. Not servants.
Payne stepped out last, suddenly cognizant of his casual clothes, which probably reeked of smoke and blood. Not to mention their dirt-splattered vehicle. None of that would have mattered at an out-of-the-way hotel. But here it was sure to be frowned on.
His concerns disappeared a moment later, when Mr. Lee strode out of the hotel. He wore a tailored Italian suit, freshly polished shoes, and a grin the size of his head. Jet-black hair framed his boyish face, although he was probably in his midthirties. He stood a foot shorter than Payne, but that didn't prevent him from staring directly into Payne's eyes with a confident gaze, the look of a man who was used to dealing with the rich and famous. Someone who wasn't intimidated by it.
With a slight bow, he handed Payne his business card and welcomed him to the Black Stone Resort. Payne smiled at the card's simplicity. It said Mr. Lee and listed his cell phone number.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lee. I'd give you one of my cards, but I'm fresh out."
Lee nodded at the gesture. "It's not necessary, Mr. Payne. We've been expecting you."
* * *
20
The lobby glistened under the recessed lights; the black and gold pattern of the stone floor appeared three-dimensional due to a fresh coat.of wax, giving it the illusion of depth. A circular atrium soared above the center lobby, interspersed with decorative black railings fifteen feet above the main desk. Several guests waited in line. But Mr. Lee ignored them all. The only people he cared about had just arrived. Jonathon Payne, party of three.
"I like the color scheme," Payne said, trying to make small talk. Despite his large inheritance, he wasn't comfortable with the trappings of wealth. He was more of a beer and burger guy than wine and caviar.
Mr. Lee nodded appreciation. "Did you know Hines Ward is South Korean? When he won Super Bowl MVP, we redecorated the lobby in Pittsburgh Steelers colors. We were very proud."
Payne glanced at Jones, who stared back, both of them stunned by the statement.
Eventually Mr. Lee started to laugh. "I am just joking.
The colors never changed. They have always been black and gold. I make joke since you are a Pittsburgh fan."
Payne laughed at his own gullibility. "How did you know that?"
"Because Mr. Lee knows all."
"Glad to hear it, Mr. Lee. Because I have a bunch of questions you could help me with."
"And I have a bunch of answers. But first, allow me to show you to your room. Perhaps all you need is a hot bath and a gourmet meal to help you discover some solutions on your own."
Payne's room turned out to be a massive suite, three small bedrooms separated by sliding doors from the living area. It was equipped with a plasma TV, multiple couches, a wet bar, and a small kitchen. The parquet floor blended perfectly with the light stone in the only bathroom. A two-person sauna sat underneath a tinted bay window, offering sweeping views of the Yellow Sea, where waves crashed in the distance, barely audible yet somehow comforting.
Kia showered first, dying to wash the smell from her hair. While they waited, Payne and Jones went to the far end of the suite, turning on the TV to drown out their conversation.
Payne spoke first. "I'm sorry about all the fuss downstairs. Randy must've called the hotel and told them we were coming, just to make a point."
"In that case, I wouldn't be surprised if a hooker knocks on our door."
"Yeah, a fat one."
Jones laughed loudly, glad to have a moment of levity in an otherwise dreadful day. Back when they were with the MANIACs, they often relied on laughter to get them through the tough times. That's one of the reasons the nickname suited their unit. No matter how deep the shit, the humor never quit. So much so that other squads thought they were crazy. Actual maniacs.
"So," Payne said, changing the subject, "how do you want to handle this? Should we snoop around the hotel, asking about the father and son? Or is that a waste of time?"
"We can try. But we don't have much to go on. All we have is the picture."
Jones pulled out a photograph of the Park family that they'd taken from their house before leaving the village. They'd rummaged around a little bit, checking closets and drawers, trying not to step in any blood in case the cops were eventually called in, but the place was so small, so cramped, it was obvious that the Parks didn't have much money. As far as they could tell, there were nine people living in a house that was built for four. No way they were staying there.
"What are the other possibilities?"
"There's no guarantee the old man heard correctly," Jones suggested. "Or maybe he mistranslated the term. Or the boy was just muttering about black stones he saw inside the cave. There are dozens of explanations that would make more sense than this place."
Payne rubbed his eyes, half-regretting his seat on the couch. It was soft and plush and made him want to sleep. "Let's go back to the cave for a sec. Let's focus on that. What do we know about the operation?"
"Schmidt's team consisted of himself and the three squad members who weren't killed at the hospital. That means five of them in total. Dr. Sheldon said Trevor was in charge of the facility, doing torture or whatever. Forensics found three samples that weren't in the system, probably from the prisoners or the men who killed Schmidt's crew."
"In other words, professionals."
"Definitely. No way they got to Schmidt otherwise."
Payne sighed, still trying to grasp the situation. "Professional soldiers mean one of two things: we captured a foreign official that was important enough to be rescued. Or—"
"We snagged a terrorist with a lot of secrets."
"Exactly. Someone big. Someone worth saving."
"That makes more sense to me. Terrorists are off-the-grid to begin with. No reason to bring them into the system. Smuggle them to a cave and let Schmidt work them over until he got them to talk." Jones paused, thinking things through. "Let's face it, Schmidt and his men would've been perfect candidates for that type of work. Still angry from the hospital attack."
"Plus it explains the village."
"How so?"
"A foreign national wouldn't cover up his escape. If anything, he'd blow the whistle on the cave, showcasing the evil nature of America. But a terrorist? He'd want everyone dead."
"Good point."
"Speaking of which, did I mention that Dr. Sheldon is dead?"
Jones arched his eyebrows. "No."
"Raskin searched his personnel file, and he was listed as dead. Died three years ago."
"Wow. He was a little pale, but he didn't look dead."
"Just because he's white doesn't mean he's pale."
Jones smiled, no racial tension at all. "What else did his file say?"
"Not much. Randy was supposed to see what he could find. Maybe we'll luck out."
"Maybe we already have."
"How so?"
"Think back to our meeting with Colonel Harrington. When he talked about Schmidt, he said he ceased to exist after the incident. That term's been bugging me ever since. At first I thought he meant Schmidt went nuts. But maybe he was talking in different terms. Maybe that's when they recruited him into black ops. One minute he was in the system, the next he wasn't."
"And you think the same thing happened with Sheldon?
They killed him on paper so he had more freedom overseas. ... That's not a bad theory."
"I have my moments." Jones yawned, suddenly feeling tired. "What else did Randy mention? Anything about the prisoners?"
"Unfortunately,
he was pretty tight-lipped on the topic. He hinted that Harrington could get us clearance, but if you don't mind, I'd prefer to fly solo for a while. I'm still pissed about his lack of disclosure. He should've told us about Schmidt from the very beginning. It would've saved us a lot of legwork."
"Any thoughts on where we can get the intel?"
Payne nodded. "Don't worry. I've got someone in mind."
Nick Dial was known for two things: one professional, one personal. He ran the homicide division at Interpol, the first American ever promoted to such an illustrious position in the French-based agency. But to his friends, he was known for his chin. His world-class chin. The type that movie stars would pay big bucks for. It sat at the bottom of his face like a perfectly sculpted granite masterpiece. Very heroic-looking. Like Dudley Do-Right.
Because of his job, Dial kept strange hours, often flying from country to country to cut through red tape or handle border disputes whenever they interfered with a case. Never knowing where he might fly to next. Or when he might get there. Interpol was a worldwide organization, which meant his duties were international. And his knowledge was extensive.
The sound of Dial's phone was followed by a low growl. One of utter frustration. He was sitting at his desk in Lyon, France, trying to catch up on his paperwork. But this was one of those days when his phone wouldn't stop ringing— six times in the past fifteen minutes—and his only recourse was to growl at it, trying to intimidate it. Hoping it would stop. Yet the damn thing kept ringing over and over again. Finally he felt obligated to pick it up.
"What?" he barked.
"Oh, crap, someone's cranky."
Dial grinned, recognizing the sound of Payne's voice. "Sorry, Jon. Long day."
"Me, too. I'm getting too old for this shit."
"You mean lounging in your corporate penthouse, counting your cash? Yeah, tough life."
"Not today I'm not. They pulled me back in."
No further explanation was necessary. Dial knew who they were. He'd met Payne and Jones several years ago at Stars & Stripes, a European bar that catered to Americans who worked overseas. They were in the MANIACs at the time, and Dial was still rising through the ranks at Interpol. The three of them hit it off, and they'd kept in touch ever since—occasionally bumping into each other in the strangest places. Last time was in Italy. At the airport.
"Anything I can help you with?"
"That depends. How secure is this line?"
"Hold on." Dial stood from his leather chair and walked over to his office door. He locked it with a loud click. "Okay. We're good."
"How good?"
"The phone's encrypted. The office is soundproof. And we sweep daily for bugs."
"Good enough for me."
Dial leaned back in his chair, intrigued. "What's going on?"
"Can't get into specifics. But it looks like we hooked a big fish."
Fish was a slang term for international fugitive. "We talking shark?"
"I'm talking whale."
"That's great news, isn't it?"
"It was until he slipped off the hook. Took a lot of fishermen with him."
Dial knew he wouldn't- get any further details, so he didn't bother to ask. "Sorry to hear that, Jon. How can I help?"
"Pardon the pun, but some things are radier fishy on my end. I'd appreciate if you could talk to some of your sources and let me know what you find. Facts, rumors, anything."
"Not a problem. Of course, things would go much smoother if I had a name."
"Yeah," Payne agreed. "That makes two of us."
* * *
21
For the first time since her arrival in Mecca, Shari Shas-meen did not want to be in the tunnel.
The murder of Fred Nasir had spooked her. The lack of an explanation from Abdul-Khaliq, who normally had an answer for everything, made things worse. But the final straw was her isolation with this new guard. It was unbearable. There was something about him that creeped her out. Maybe it was the way he grabbed her hand when he tried to take her keys. Or the detached way that his men disposed of the body. Or the way he looked at her.
Whatever it was, he made her squirm.
At first, she figured she'd be allowed to leave as soon as she'd given him a short tour. But he stopped halfway through to make a phone call to one of his men. Followed by another. And another. Any other place and she would've left the site and gone back to her hotel. Her time was valuable, and he was wasting it. On purpose. But in Saudi Arabia, women weren't allowed to walk the streets alone. They had to travel with a close male relative, who could protect their virtue, or several other women, who could protect their reputation. Abdul-Khaliq had provided her with phony paperwork that claimed kinship with the other American scholars—it's what allowed her to work with them in close proximity." But the lead guard had sent her coworkers away when he first arrived, and they wouldn't return until they were summoned.
That meant she was trapped in the tunnel until he said she could leave.
To kill time, she entered the main site and made sure everything was all right. Like a protective mother who was about to go away for the weekend, worried about leaving something so precious in someone else's hands.
Plus, she wanted to see it one last time before she left for the week.
A mental snapshot of her progress.
Right now it didn't look like much, nothing more than the outer shell of a document chamber. Simple in design, it was assembled out of local stones, carved by Muslim craftsmen, and then buried underground for protection. Just like folklore had said. Her team dug around four sides, exposing four walls that could be measured, photographed, and tested. The bottom remained rooted in soil, holding it in place. The top remained undisturbed since its accidental discovery by a construction worker. Preliminary research proved it was built in the seventh century, not ancient by biblical standards but the perfect age for what they were hoping to find.
Staring at it, memories of the initial phone call from Abdul-Khaliq came flooding back. His interest in her research. Questions about her training and background. And eventually, an invitation to join the dig. A week later she was flown halfway around the world to run a project in the heart of Islam, right down the road from its most holy shrine. It was the type of opportunity that all archaeologists dreamed of.
A chance to shatter myths or reaffirm history.
But she wouldn't know which until she looked inside.
The Qur'an is the central religious text of Islam. Muslims believe it is the literal word of God, revealed to Muhammad over the last twenty-three years of his life. Unlike Christians, who believe Jesus Christ is the Son of God, Muslims do not worship Muhammad as a deity; rather they honor him as their most important prophet, the man responsible for establishing Islam in its purest form.
According to Islamic scholars, Muhammad was born in Mecca in 570 AD. He was orphaned by age six and eventually lived with his uncle, Abu Talib, who was the leader of the Banu Hashim, one of the clans in the Quraish tribe. At the time, Mecca was a thriving economic center, partly because of the Kaaba, the great Islamic shrine that Muslims still worship, which attracted throngs of merchants during the pilgrimage season because violence between the various tribes was outlawed. Muhammad eventually became a merchant himself, traveling to Syria and other parts of the world, opening his eyes to many beliefs and cultures.
During his middle years, Muhammad often retreated to the peak of Jabal al-Nour near Mecca to fast and meditate. In 610 AD, while inside the Cave of Hira, he received his first revelation from God, delivered to him by the Archangel Gabriel. At first, most people were skeptical— including Muhammad himself—but when the revelations continued, he began to preach and eventually attracted a small band of followers that continued to grow until his death.
Despite his privileged upbringing, Muhammad never learned how to read or write; therefore it was incumbent on his companions to record his recitations, often on pieces of loose parchment or whatever materials they could f
ind, including leafstalks of date palms and scapula bones.
Remarkably, during his lifetime, Muhammad's revelations were never bound into a single book.
The modern form of the Qur'an is widely attributed to Uthman ibn Affan, the third caliph of Islam, who formed a committee to compile a standard version of the holy book, based on all the teachings they could find. Upon its completion sometime around 650 AD, Uthman sent a copy to every Muslim city and town and ordered all other versions of the Qur'an destroyed, his way of guaranteeing a unified message.
Unfortunately, despite the claims of some, many modern-day historians doubt that any of Uthman's original copies have survived. Some feel the oldest existing Qur'an was written in the eighth century, nearly a hundred years after the Uthman version was distributed. Barely a blip on the radar screen in terms of human evolution, but a wide chasm in religious history. Obviously, many Islamic scholars have wondered what changes might have occurred during that century. Even the slightest alteration of syntax could have a profound effect on Muhammad's original message, thereby affecting an entire religion.
One of those scholars was Shari Shasmeen, who had spent many years searching for one of Uthman's Qur'ans, only to have her dream crushed at every turn. That is, until she received a phone call from Abdul-Khaliq, who implied that he might have found something better.
Something so astounding that it dwarfed what she had been looking for.
The guard made all of the arrangements on an encrypted cell phone. He spoke with his crew. He ordered equipment. He coordinated times and places. If this was going to work, there could be no mistakes. Nothing could be overlooked. Everything had to be perfect.
He glanced at his watch and noted the time.
Right on schedule.
Now all he had to figure out was what to do with that bitch archaeologist. She was going to be a problem—he could tell that already. The way she fought back when he tried to take her keys. The way she stared at him. Defiant. Unyielding. The exact opposite of what he expected from a Muslim woman. Weren't they supposed to bend to the authority of men?
