by S. A. Beck
Meade kicked the man’s gun away, glanced around the door to make sure no one else was lurking inside the bathroom, and ran to the door looking out over the parking lot.
No one was in sight. The neighborhood had gone deathly silent.
He rushed back to the man lying doubled up in agony on the bloody bathroom tiles.
Turning him over and sticking his 9mm in his face, Meade glared down at him. “Who sent you?”
The assassin managed a weak grin with bloody teeth.
Meade slapped him. “Who sent you?”
The assassin never stopped grinning as his eyes rolled up in their sockets and the last bit of light in them guttered out.
Meade didn’t bother searching the bodies. They wouldn’t be carrying anything that could identify them.
As the adrenaline from the fight wore off, Meade felt a prickling fear. The cops would come soon, even in that degenerate neighborhood. What would they say when they found a United States general in a cheap motel, standing over two dead bodies?
He had to get out of there.
Meade grabbed his things and stuffed them in his bag. Within seconds, he was out the door and to his car.
His car…
He paused in front of it. What if they had a backup plan? What if his car was booby-trapped?
Meade glanced around. He had to get out of there right away. He didn’t have time to check for bombs, and in the half light of the parking lot, he might miss them anyway.
Then he saw the night manager’s terrified face peeking out from the office window.
Meade leveled his pistol at him and strode over. Glancing to the left and right, he saw the dealer and the working girls had disappeared. A few cars were driving in the distance, but anyone who had been close enough to hear the shots had run away.
He stopped in front of the window.
“You. Out.”
The manager cringed and scuttled out of the office.
“I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I didn’t see nothing.”
Meade looked him over: sunken face, bloodshot eyes, rotten teeth, scrawny body. An obvious drug addict who had his mind together enough to hold down a job so he could support his habit. Nothing but human filth.
Meade handed him his car keys. “Open my car and start the engine.”
“Wh-what?”
“You heard me. Do it.”
The night manager walked unsteadily over to Meade’s car, gasping as he saw the assassin’s body sprawled in front of the motel-room door. As he got to the car, he paused, eyes growing wide.
“Did you see them doing anything to my car?” Meade asked.
“N-no.”
“Unlock the door and start the engine,” he ordered, backing away.
“B-but…”
“It’s that or a bullet,” Meade said, aiming the gun at his head.
Even then it took the guy a moment to decide. With a trembling hand, he put the key in the door and turned it. Meade and the night manager both winced, expecting an explosion. None came. Shaking like a leaf, the manager opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat. He gave General Meade a pleading look.
“Don’t make me do this.”
“I need this car to get away. You have to check it.”
“But—”
“Now.”
The man put the key in the ignition and rested his forehead against the steering wheel. “I’ve done a lot of bad stuff in my life, but I don’t deserve this,” he whispered. He took a deep breath, sat up straight, and turned the ignition.
The car started normally.
The night manager lifted his eyes heavenward and raised his hands. “Thank you, God. I’ll live a different life from now on.” He stepped out of the car, leaving the engine running.
“I won’t tell anyone a thing,” he told General Meade. “I’m quitting this job and getting my life back together. I tried rehab once and it didn’t work, but this time—”
General Meade pulled the trigger and blew the top half of the guy’s head off.
He paused, looking down at the ruined body lying in front of him. “Sorry, but you could have identified me. There are bigger issues at stake.”
Meade got into his car and drove away.
Chapter 12
July 28, 2016, MARRAKESH, MOROCCO
8:45 AM
* * *
Jaxon strolled along a narrow lane near her hotel, her skin alive with a tingling excitement at having slipped away alone. She knew she would get lost among all those winding alleys and streets, but she decided to let go of her fear.
With that business card, she could always ask for directions and make her way back. Edward had also supplied each member of the Atlantis Allegiance with an untraceable phone bought on the street and supplied with enough prepaid credit to keep them going for a time. She could call one of the others to come get her.
At the moment, she had her phone turned off. She didn’t want to talk to anyone—she wanted to explore. She felt kind of bad at cutting off the others when all they wanted to do was help her, but if they wanted to help her, they had to let her help herself.
The part of the medina she was passing through was less crowded than the bigger streets, but she still had to go slowly. People were walking leisurely, stopping to talk with anyone they knew by shaking their hands and kissing them on each cheek, or if the person was passing by too far away, a simple wave and a pat on the heart was enough. Jaxon liked that gesture. The people seemed friendly even though a lot of them looked poor or tired. Marrakesh, at least the little she had seen of it, didn’t feel like a third-world country. The lights worked, the plumbing usually worked, and nobody seemed to be starving. Everything was a little ragged, though, like the beat-up old cars that belched exhaust in the bigger streets and the flaking paint on all the buildings, and she saw a lot of beggars and a lot of working people who looked pretty poor. It was more like a second-world country. Jaxon wondered if that was a real expression. People always talked about the first world and the third world, but she bet there were a lot of countries like Morocco that sort of fit in the middle.
The medina felt like its own little world, with countless alleys and shops and residential homes. Almost none of the streets were wide enough for a car, and most people walked.
Every now and then, the pedestrians had to squeeze against the wall or duck into a shop to avoid a motorcycle tooting down the lane or a rumbling little three-wheeled motorized cart delivering produce or gas canisters. Jaxon liked that the cars couldn’t make it in there. The drive from the airport had been crazy, with crowds of cars and trucks speeding along and cutting each other off. Looking over the dashboard of their taxi, she felt as if she were in some sort of real-life video game. She had been worried that Morocco would be dangerous, but the only dangerous people she’d seen were the drivers.
To either side of the lane stood little shops or the stalls of craftsmen. In one, an old man with thick eyeglasses carefully cut leather into patterns for some sort of clothing while his neighbor sewed one of those giant brown cloaks the men wore despite the heat.
There were also the Moroccan equivalent of convenience stores, little wooden counters, always painted sky blue for some reason Jaxon couldn’t figure out, piled high with candy, cartons of milk, and potato chips.
Jaxon spotted a carton of fruit juice at one of them. Feeling thirsty, she plucked up her courage and went over.
The man behind the counter, a hunched-over middle-aged guy with a salt-and-pepper beard and white skullcap, said something to her in Arabic.
“Um, can you speak English?” Jaxon reminded herself to get a phrase book if they were going to hang out in the area for a while.
The man looked surprised. “Yes, a little.”
“How much for the fruit juice?” Jaxon asked, pointing.
“Kam.”
“What?”
“Kam means ‘how much.’”
“Kam?”
“Ashra darahim. Ten dirham.”
/> Jaxon grinned and pulled out a coin. If everyone acted that helpful, she wouldn’t need a phrase book after all.
Someone tugged on her sleeve. Jaxon turned to see a plump older woman in a headscarf and a loose robe. The woman asked her something in Arabic.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.”
The woman looked surprised and said something to the storeowner before chuckling and walking away.
“She says you look Moroccan,” the storeowner said.
“Um, thanks.”
“Are your parents from Morocco or from Algeria or Mali, perhaps?”
“No, California.”
“Ah, there are many Moroccans in California! I have cousin who has restaurant in Los Angeles. Are you certain your parents are not Moroccan?”
“Not Moroccan, but close.” Jaxon laughed as she walked away. Under her breath she whispered, “I’m Atlantean. Too bad no one seems to know what that means.”
Sipping her fruit juice, which was warm but at least quenched her thirst, she studied the area she was walking through. Buildings rose three or four stories on either side, looking almost featureless with their whitewashed, grimy walls and little windows, almost always shut. The doors, some of ornately carved wood and others of blank metal, always stayed shut. The Moroccans appeared to be a private people.
She didn’t feel threatened, though. All she knew about the Muslim world were the wars and massacres she saw on TV, but Marrakesh wasn’t like that at all. Vivian had told her that, while it wasn’t as safe as the better parts of Los Angeles, it was a lot safer than some of the neighborhoods where Jaxon and Brett used to hang out. The government was stable, and there wasn’t a civil war on. That wasn’t the case with the rest of the countries in North Africa.
Jaxon didn’t even feel all that out of place. In fact, people didn’t pay much attention to her at all. Otto and the scientists always got surrounded by people trying to sell them cheap tourist trinkets. She’d seen some locals carrying fezzes or curved Moroccan daggers or little leather camels, but none of them had come up to try to sell her that junk.
She scanned the crowd for faces like hers. The population was so mixed that she saw every race she could name, plus a few she couldn’t, and a whole bunch of people who looked like a mixture of two or more races. That gave her confidence. She didn’t stand out in Morocco as she had back home. In a population that diverse, no one was going to give her a weird look just because of her appearance. Even her clothes weren’t all that different. She looked like a lot of the younger Moroccan women who dressed in Western styles.
Every now and then, though, a woman shrouded in heavy black cloth would pass by, her face invisible behind a veil, or Jaxon would spot a butcher’s shop with a line of lambs’ heads on display, or she’d pass an alley blocked by a row of men kneeling on prayer rugs and touching their foreheads to the ground, and she’d remember that while she might look as though she fit in, she was still a foreigner in a very foreign land.
Everything was brand new to her. She’d only been out of the hotel a couple of times on some amazing walks through the city. They’d seen a beautiful Islamic art pavilion all made of red tile next to a pool that reflected it and the Atlas Mountains looming behind it. Those mountains beckoned to her. Beyond them lay the desert and, Dr. Yamazaki had told her, perhaps more of her people. Otto and Jaxon had also gone to a giant town square called the Jemaa el Fna, where peddlers sold all sorts of spices and jewelry while jugglers and acrobats performed for the crowd.
She found the medina just as fascinating. That was where regular folks lived and worked, and behind some of those doors, some of her people must have been living. Jaxon kept searching the crowd, hoping to spot a black face with bright blue eyes. No luck. Apparently, the Atlanteans were rare there, too.
For two hours she wandered, the heat getting so bad that she had to get another carton of fruit juice. Once again, it was warm. She guessed those little blue convenience stores didn’t invest in refrigerators. She had become thoroughly lost in the maze of the medina, but she didn’t worry about that. All she focused on were the faces in the endless stream of people passing by. Someone like her had to live in the huge city.
Then, a woman’s face caught her eye. She wore loose robes and a pale yellow, gauzy headscarf. Her face was exposed and showed dusky skin, wide cheekbones, and brilliantly blue eyes.
Jaxon stopped and stared. For some reason, Courtney’s words came back to her. Those eyes really were pretty, especially when set off against dark skin.
The woman was walking toward her, carrying some vegetables in a plastic bag. She didn’t even glance at Jaxon as she passed.
Jaxon hurried after her. “Excuse me? Do you speak English?”
The woman looked at her, obviously confused. Jaxon felt a spike of disappointment. She had almost expected the woman’s face to light up as she hugged Jaxon and brought her to a home of Atlanteans to have a big family reunion. She thought all she had to do was make contact and a lifetime of questions would be answered.
Instead, the woman gave her a bashful smile and said, “No English. Parlez-vous français?”
“Um, no.”
The woman shrugged and said something in Arabic. She turned to go, and Jaxon got in front of her again.
“Don’t you see it? We’re the same people,” Jaxon said, pointing to her face and then the stranger’s. “Atlantean. You’re Atlantean. I’m from Atlantis too. Well, our ancestors were, anyway.”
The woman’s expression showed she didn’t understand. Then, to Jaxon’s surprise, the woman took her by the hand and led her down one of the streets.
“Thank you!” Jaxon said. “I’m so anxious to meet other people like me. Do you know someone who speaks English? I have so many questions.”
The woman simply nodded and took her around a corner and into a main street lined with jewelry shops. Brightly lit windows sparkled with gold and diamonds. Far ahead, the lane intersected a square or a bigger street, with an arch opening up into an area of blazing sunlight.
The woman repeated something three times, pointing toward that sunlit arch. Then she smiled and walked away.
“Wait!” Jaxon called.
The woman simply turned, smiled again, and pointed toward the arch.
Frustrated, Jaxon headed toward the end of the street. Maybe there was a neighborhood of Atlanteans over there. Yeah, that must be it! The woman couldn’t speak English and was obviously in a hurry, so instead of taking her there herself, she had pointed the way.
Jaxon hastened her steps, weaving her way through the crowd as sweat trickled down her back. As she approached the arch, the heat got worse, the air heavy with spices and cooking as she passed some food stalls. After the shadowy streets of the medina, the sunlight blinded her. She shaded her eyes as she passed under the arch and came into the direct sunlight. The sun had risen high in the sky. Jaxon reckoned it must be almost noon. She’d been wandering the medina all morning.
Jaxon blinked as her eyes became accustomed to the light. What she saw made her heart sink.
She was in the Jemaa el Fna, the giant square with all the food stalls and performers and cafes. Tourist central. She and Otto had gone there a couple times and had seen no Atlanteans.
The woman had misunderstood. She had taken Jaxon for a lost tourist and directed her to the city’s main landmark.
How could she not recognize the similarity in their faces? Wasn’t it obvious?
The depressing answer dawned on Jaxon soon enough—the woman didn’t know what she was, just as Jaxon hadn’t known until the Atlantis Allegiance saved her. What if none of the Atlanteans knew their true history? What if all those centuries of hiding and running from persecution had destroyed the memory of where they were from?
Jaxon sighed. The square was way too hot—over a hundred. At least from there, she sort of knew how to get back to the hotel. She shook her head in frustration and headed back. Everybody was probably freaking out by then, so she figured she
should probably get back.
She crossed the square, the sun pressing down on her, and entered another of the arched gates that led into the covered medina. Coming in from the sun, the shade seemed almost pitch black by contrast. She had to pause for a moment to let her eyes adjust. That gave her time to remember the way, and soon she was following alleys as they grew narrower and narrower, and the shops gave way to residential buildings.
When she was just a few minutes away from the hotel, lost in her own glum thoughts and sense of helplessness, she heard a strange fluting coming from one of the side alleys. Jaxon stopped and listened. The music had a shrill, tinny sound yet made a beautiful melody, one with a regular rhythm that she could follow along and anticipate. It was different from the haunting mosque music, earthier, like folk music.
The music got drowned out by a gaggle of young boys rushing into the alley, the leader pointing the way and shouting over his shoulder to his friends. The alley took a right turn just a few yards down, and within seconds they tore around the corner and disappeared. A few other children trickled into the alley as well, as well as a couple old men. They all went around the corner, too.
Curious, Jaxon paused at the intersection. The music continued, picking up volume.
“Why not?” Jaxon said with a shrug and followed the crowd.
Around the corner, the alley opened up into a small courtyard formed by old buildings with arched windows covered by complex wooden latticework. An ancient, crumbling fountain stood in the center. Unlike the one in her hotel, that one actually had water in it, burbling out to splash over intricate blue and green tiles.
Beside the fountain stood an old man in a faded yellow djellaba and cracked leather sandals. He was playing a strange wooden flute that flared out to a big bulb near the bottom before crimping back into a small airhole. In front of him sat three wicker baskets, and a few feet away from them, a half circle of old men and young boys, with a few shy girls sticking close to their brothers. Jaxon moved to the front row and sat down. A little boy next to her grinned up at her and said something in Arabic. Jaxon smiled back at him.
