East of the Jordan (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 2)

by Micheal Maxwell

  Before Sydney could respond, she saw Ibn Kitab walk up to the shipping container. He waved up at them.

  Sydney leaned forward a little bit over the edge of her perch so she could see him better.

  He called up to her. “We are finished. Tell your prophet I will be in contact with you.”

  My prophet, Sydney thought.

  She walked towards the ladder to climb down from the shipping container. Seventy-five pounds of qedex was delivered. It wasn’t much, but it was more than a thousand doses of qedex. That was a thousand minds Abu Kishaa could infect. She needed to end this man soon.

  * * *

  Back at Abu Kishaa’s camp, the supposed prophet was nowhere to be found. So, Sydney started planning how she was going to get rid of him. It wasn’t going to be enough just to shoot him and make a break for the desert. They were far enough away from any city that she would have almost no chance of getting away. Once she got to a heavily populated area, she would be stuck anyway. Abu Kishaa took all of her passports and forged IDs. She would only have her satellite phone.

  She sat on the cot in her tent and sighed into her hands. “Think, Sydney. Think.”

  She assessed their situation. They were in the desert a few hundred miles from the nearest airport. She could ride for the Saudi Arabian border, but that was a tight border. They would detain her, and she’d have difficulty talking her way out of that without any identification. She wasn’t ready to quit her career as a spy just yet. She could head for Syria. That was a porous border primarily controlled by militia groups, but they were probably worse than Abu Kishaa.

  Her best plan was the Rightful Custodians of the Two Mosques. They had guns and transportation. They could protect her as she tried to escape, and, most importantly, they were bad guys she understood. Criminals weren’t usually very complicated. They believed in simple transactions. What did she have that they wanted?

  She had access to Abu Kishaa and qedex. Giving them the secret to qedex would defeat the purpose. If she was trying to stop Abu Kishaa and stop qedex, giving it to a different terrorist group wouldn’t solve much. So, she needed to give them Abu Kishaa. Seeing their prophet in the hands of a rival group might work to break some of his followers’ faith as well.

  Okay, now there was an objective. She just needed a plan.

  Sydney stepped outside of her tent and wasn’t surprised to see a Brother standing beside a burning barrel. He was trying to look casual and as if he weren’t guarding her door, but she knew. There was always a brother lurking around some corner. They tried to stay out of the way mostly, but she was clearly a captive.

  She said to him in Arabic, “Brother, excuse me.”

  He turned his head towards her but didn’t say anything.

  “Can you tell the Prophet I would like to speak with him? I don’t know where he is,” she said.

  The Brother nodded and walked away from the burning barrel.

  She was going to use a technique she’d learned while training with Titus Crow. She didn’t like it. It wasn’t her usual style, but sometimes she needed to step outside of her comfort zone. She was going to seduce Abu Kishaa. He might be a man of Chemosh, but he was still a man.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A few well-placed bribes put Logan and Eric on a cargo flight headed for Antalya, Turkey. They rode in a cargo hold full of frozen chickens. They bundled in coats and blankets and rode the four hours to Turkey in shivering silence. Occasionally, Eric would look up from breathing warmth into his hands to glare at Logan.

  Logan just shrugged and said, “I said it was important work. I never said it was comfortable.”

  Each of them sat on a box of frozen chickens as they crossed borders into Turkey. Once they landed, they slipped off the cargo plane and into the back of an eighteen-wheeler headed for Aleppo. In Aleppo, they got on a passenger bus.

  The bus was mostly empty, so Logan and Eric had the back to themselves.

  Eric said, “Who’s the next name?”

  Logan replied, “It just says Jethro ibn Ahmad, archaeologist.”

  “Why would Abu Kishaa want an archaeologist dead?” Eric asked.

  Logan replied, “That’s what we need to find out.”

  The bus bounced and trundled through the grassy countryside. If they could go straight to Apamea, the trip would have taken only a short time. Instead, the bus wound through the roads that were built around the tallest hills and mountains. The winding path dragged the trip out for hours. Eventually, though, they reached Apamea.

  Eric googled Apamea. He said, “Apamea was a Byzantine city. It’s one of the longest Roman colonnades ever.”

  Logan looked out of the window and saw crumbling Roman columns emerging from the grassy hill like diseased teeth jutting out of green gums. The pillars stretched for hundreds of feet. Logan said, “Oh, really?”

  Eric looked up and chuckled. “Yeah, that must be it.”

  They stepped off the bus. After a few minutes, the bus pulled away, and they were alone underneath the ruined columns. In the distance, tents were set up. They were mostly just canvas covers on tent skeletons to keep the sun off the people working there.

  About a dozen people were milling around. Some of them were digging around the columns with tiny shovels. Others were dusting off pieces of rock with what looked like small paintbrushes.

  Logan pointed at the camp of people. “You imagine there’s an archaeologist over there?”

  Eric started walking. “Let’s go find out.”

  They approached the camp of people digging. A man sat behind a table, typing away on a laptop. He looked up over the top of the computer and squinted. He pulled glasses down off his head so he could see.

  “Salaam,” he said with a wave.

  Eric waved back. “Salaam.”

  In Arabic, Logan said, “We’re looking for Jethro ibn Ahmad.”

  The man replied, “I’m Jethro. Who are you?”

  Logan said, “I’m Niles. This is Binyamin. We’re from the Byzantine Research Society of Alabama.”

  Jethro frowned. “I apologize. I’ve never heard of your organization.”

  Logan looked shocked. “We’re the preeminent Eastern Roman Empire research organization in the southeastern United States.”

  Jethro nodded. Every academic was the preeminent academic in his mind.

  “We heard you’re doing some pretty groundbreaking work here,” Eric said. The kid was quick. Every academic also thought he was doing groundbreaking work.

  Jethro brightened up and started speaking rapidly. “We are. I see they’ve heard about me in America. Did you read my article in Smithsonian Magazine?”

  Logan chuckled. “Who hasn’t? It was brilliant. We needed to come to see the researcher in person.”

  Jethro nodded as if this was an entirely believable thing to say. “I assume you want to see the papyrus?”

  Eric replied, “That’s why we’re here.”

  Jethro stood up and motioned for them to follow him. He led them to a tent. Inside the tent, Jethro handed them white cotton gloves. “Please put these on.”

  He then led them over to a large plastic food storage container. He pulled the lid off, revealing a fragmented brownish fabric covered in fading writing. The writing looked like Greek.

  Jethro spoke excitedly. “We can’t decipher it completely yet because I haven’t gotten a scholar to come out. It’s Attic Greek from probably the 5th century AD. From what we’ve translated so far, it’s a gardening document.”

  “Gardening?” Logan asked.

  Jethro nodded. “Specifically, it tells how to grow silphium. It’s an ancient Roman medicine that has been lost to history.”

  “Not lost anymore,” Eric offered.

  Jethro smiled. “Exactly. With this, we can cultivate silphium. We just need a source of silphium seeds.”

  Oh. So, that’s why Abu Kishaa wants this bookish scholar dead. He’s discovered the secret to qedex. If he publishes his papyrus, Abu Kishaa will no longer ha
ve a monopoly on his drug.

  Logan put a hand on Jethro’s shoulder. “Mr. Ibn Ahmad, I need you to listen to me very carefully. There is a man in Jordan named Abu Kishaa.”

  Eric hissed, “Niles.”

  Logan waved him away. “There is a man in Jordan named Abu Kishaa.”

  “The prophet on TV?” Jethro asked.

  Logan nodded. “Yes. He is growing silphium on the banks of the Dead Sea.”

  Jethro’s eyes grew huge. “Oh, wow. That’s exciting.”

  Logan shook his head. “No. He doesn’t want anyone else to know how to grow it. He is using it to trick people into thinking he’s doing miracles.”

  Jethro frowned. “That’s terrible.”

  Logan went on, “He sent us here to kill you.”

  Jethro jumped backward, snatching up the Tupperware with the papyrus in it. He held it close to his chest like a baby.

  Logan held out his open hands. “We’re not going to kill you.”

  Eric spat, “We’re not?”

  Logan shook his head. “We’re not Abu Kishaa’s goons. If you publish this, you are dead. He’ll send actual killers here to kill you.”

  Jethro was still hugging the Tupperware for comfort and trembling. “What am I supposed to do? I’m just a historian.”

  Eric said, “Give us the papyrus.”

  Logan held up his hands and shook his head. “That’s not necessary. You need to take the papyrus and everybody who works here and leave. Go somewhere safe. Don’t go to relatives. They’ll expect that. Leave Syria. Go to a hotel under a fake name. Stay there until you see on the news that Abu Kishaa is dead.”

  Eric gasped. “You’re going to kill him?”

  Logan groaned and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Binyamin. That is what I am going to do. I am going to kill him. I kill bad guys. That is my job. That’s our job.”

  Eric whispered, “He’s a prophet of Chemosh.”

  Logan shouted, “He’s not a prophet, and Chemosh is not real. He’s a drug dealer and a terrorist.”

  Logan didn’t even see it coming. Eric surged forward, hitting him in the chest with his shoulder. Eric wrapped his arms under Logan’s armpits and drove them both to the ground. It was a textbook football tackle.

  Logan spat, “What the…”

  Before he could finish the thought, Eric’s fist slammed into Logan’s cheek. Spit flew out of his mouth. Another punch hit him in the nose.

  Eric shouted, “I can’t let you do that.”

  Logan put his hands in front of his face. “Binyamin, you…”

  Eric punched him again. Eric shoved a hand in Logan’s pocket and yanked out the list of names.

  Eric rolled off Logan and got to his feet. He started backing out of the tent, holding the list.

  Logan got to his feet. His eye and his lip were already swelling. “What are you doing with that?”

  Eric shook the list at him. “I’m going to do my job.”

  “What’s that?” Logan asked.

  Eric replied, “I have to prove myself to Abu Kishaa. You are the false prophet.”

  With that, Eric turned and ran out of the tent. Logan ran after him.

  The young man was faster and in better shape than Logan. Chasing him would be futile. Logan stood in the doorway, watching Eric run through the Roman ruins. The young man ran towards an outcropping of houses in the distance.

  Logan groaned. “Dammit.”

  The archaeologist was still standing in the tent, hugging his Tupperware with his mouth open.

  Logan ran his hand through his hair and let out a long sigh. “This is all going sideways. Look. Take the papyrus and dismiss everybody here. Go into hiding.”

  “What’s going to happen to me?” Ibn Ahmad asked.

  Logan replied, “If you do what I say, you’ll be fine. If you stay here, a group of men called the Brothers will show up, and they’ll kill you all.”

  Logan walked out of the tent and started in the direction Eric ran.

  He pulled out his satellite phone. It was a risk, but this whole operation was going pear-shaped.

  He texted Sydney. “FUBAR.”

  It was an acronym commonly used by military, police, and intelligence officials. F.U.B.A.R. Fucked up beyond all repair.

  * * *

  Sydney made the long walk across the camp towards Abu Kishaa’s tent. In the early days—only about six months ago, but it felt like a lifetime—crossing the grounds was a matter of moving five or six tents over. Now, it took about ten minutes to walk across the camp. Sydney got turned around in the sea of tents for a minute. She was headed for the middle where Abu Kishaa kept his tent but got mixed up somehow. She pulled a Brother aside and asked how to get oriented again. He pointed her towards Abu Kishaa’s tent without a word.

  She found Abu Kishaa’s tent. It was in the middle of the camp and slightly larger than the others but not overly so. It was clearly the tent of the man in charge, but he kept a humility about it. She raised her hand to knock on the wooden pole holding up the front of the tent.

  In perfect English, he said, “Come in.”

  How does he do that?

  She walked into his tent. It was warm, a fire burned in the middle, and smoke tendrils escaped through a hole in the roof. He was sitting on his cot cross-legged, typing on a laptop. He wore his regular linen pants and shirt. Finding the mood to seduce him shouldn’t be hard; he was a gorgeous man. She just needed to remember that she wasn’t actually into him. She was only acting. Wasn’t she?

  Sydney sat down on the opposite side of the fire. “You know, you’ve never told me where you learned English.”

  He didn’t look up. “Yes, I have. Chemosh gave me many languages. You simply do not believe.”

  She warmed her hands by his fire. “I came here because I was reading something. Have you heard of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene?”

  He looked up from his laptop. “Abrahamic Apocrypha?”

  She nodded. “It’s a book that says the Nazarene was married to Mary Magdalene.”

  “Interesting,” Abu Kishaa offered.

  She went on. “The Mormons believe Yahweh is married.”

  Abu Kishaa scoffed, “They are even more misguided than most Abrahamic pagans.”

  “Does Chemosh have a wife?” She asked.

  Abu Kishaa closed his laptop and unfolded his legs. “We use masculine pronouns for Chemosh, but he is not human. We cannot conceive of what Chemosh is. Chemosh has no gender, no earthly desires, and no companion.”

  She folded her wrists in her lap, her arms pushing her breasts together to bubble past the neckline of her loose linen shirt. She leaned forward a little and arched her back so Kishaa could see her cleavage. She hoped it was subtle.

  “What about you?” She asked huskily. “Does the son of Chemosh get a wife?”

  Abu Kishaa’s eyes flicked to her breasts and then back up to her face. Yep. He’s still a man.

  “I have no wife and no companion.”

  She said, “But Chemosh doesn’t say you can’t have one?”

  Abu Kishaa smirked, “No. He has not forbidden it.”

  “Perhaps, it could help you.”

  He cocked his head to the side.

  “In Western politics, when voters elect leaders, they don’t like men who aren’t married. A wife softens a man’s image. If she can put up with him every day, voters think, then maybe he’s not so bad of a guy. It makes a leader seem more human.”

  Abu Kishaa swept his hair out of his face. “Is that what I need, Sydney of Denmark? To seem more human?”

  “I think so.”

  Now, for the most difficult maneuver of this dance. Sydney rolled over onto all fours and crawled around the fire, arching her butt in the air as she scooted across the tent. She knelt in front of Abu Kishaa and put her hand on his knee.

  She whispered, “Let me help you. Let me serve Chemosh.”

  Abu Kishaa blinked but didn’t say anything. She slid between his knees and rose up until her mouth was
almost touching his lips, then paused. If this was going to work, he needed to initiate contact. She froze there for a second, unsure what was about to happen next. A rejection could be humiliating, or it could mean her death.

  Just when she thought she was about to be rejected, Abu Kishaa leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. They were soft and dry from the desert air. When she responded to his kiss, he parted his lips slightly, and hers opened as well. His tongue dashed out and slipped between her teeth. She met it, tentatively, then more forcefully as their tongues began to dance together.

  Abu Kishaa grabbed her underneath her arms and tossed her on her back onto his cot. He snatched his shirt off. The things I do for work, Sydney thought, gazing at him as he kissed her again. He pressed his weight onto her body and began to work her shirt up over her head.

  * * *

  Sydney didn’t sleep through the night. When she awoke, the sky was still dark but starting to turn light gray. Abu Kishaa was sitting shirtless by the fire. He tossed a dry stick on the fire, and it crackled and spat sparks into the air. The sparks danced for a moment and then vanished.

  Oh no, Sydney thought, realizing she’d messed up one essential element of her plan. Watching Abu Kishaa rimmed by firelight, he was captivating. He had been an attentive and patient lover, listening to her desires with an almost mind-reading level of awareness. She messed up the most important thing. She genuinely wanted Abu Kishaa. She wanted to watch him, feel his weight on top of her, hold his hand, and tangle her fingers in his hair. Damn.

  She was falling for the so-called prophet.

  Abu Kishaa noticed she was awake though he didn’t turn his head. He tossed another stick on the fire and said, “I will be going to Amman today. You will come with me.”

  Sydney responded, “What’s in Amman?”

  Abu Kishaa responded, “We are going to meet with the king of Jordan. I am going to convince him to join our movement.”

  Sydney said, “What if he says no?”

  Abu Kishaa shook his head. “He will be convinced.”

  “How do you know?”

  Abu Kishaa placed a warm hand on top of her hand. “You’ve inspired me. Last night, Chemosh spoke to me and told me of a new way. I am going to marry the king’s daughter.”