He stepped in. Muhammad Bin Mehmed sat behind a desk stacked with papers and folders. The floors were covered in books in haphazard stacks, even though bookshelves were on all of the walls. They were loaded with books, some of which were stacked sideways on top of properly shelved books.
Bin Mehmed was a slightly overweight man with a cul-de-sac bald spot on the top of his head and gray starting to creep in around his ears.
“Hello there. How are you?” Bin Mehmed said.
“I’m good,” Logan responded.
Bin Mehmed picked up his phone off the desk and checked it. “Have my office hours started? I was sure there were still a few more minutes.”
Logan responded, “Umm, no, sir. I don’t think so.”
Bin Mehmed shrugged, “Not to worry. How can I help you? Are you here about your paper?”
He thinks I’m one of his students. Let’s run with that.
“I’m actually doing an independent study.”
Bin Mehmed interjected, “Is that an American accent? I didn’t know there were any Americans in my classes. Anyway, go on.”
“Yes, sir. I’m from Pennsylvania,” Logan lied. “I’m doing an independent study. Emerging religious movements and their ties to the former Ottoman Empire.”
Bin Mehmed seemed to chew that over. His eyes lit up. “How exciting. The Ottomans dominated world affairs for 300 years. Still, Westerners don’t seem to have much interest in anything outside of the Crusades. What got you started on this path if you don’t mind me asking?”
Logan replied, “My umm… well before my girlfriend, uh, left me, we went backpacking in Israel, and we met some travelers near the Jordan. They said they were part of a group on the east side of the Jordan.”
The smile started to fade off Bin Mehmed’s face. “Mmhmm.”
“Well, we went with them for a few nights and camped in the desert. It was weird. I was ready to leave, but my girlfriend stayed. As far as I know, she’s still with that group.”
Bin Mehmed’s face was set in an earnest expression. He seemed to be grinding his teeth. “What was the name of this group?”
I don’t like that look on his face. He knows about Abu Kishaa, and he’s ready to throw me out of his office.
“I’m not sure.”
Bin Mehmed spoke slowly and sternly, “Who is this independent study with again?”
Fortunately, Logan took the time to look up several professors. “Professor McCloughan. Religious studies on the Galway Campus.”
Hopefully, he doesn’t know every professor at every campus.
Bin Mehmed just nodded. He seemed skeptical, but he was still listening.
“She told me to talk to you about groups in that area. She said you know something about the history of the area around the Jordan.”
“My father is Jordanian, but my mother is Irish,” the professor responded. “What do you remember about this group? Anything about its leader, maybe?”
Logan responded, “The leader is a man named Abu Kashem, I think.”
Bin Mehmed offered, “Abu Kishaa?”
“That’s it.”
Bin Mehmed stood up and started grabbing books seemingly at random. “Well, I’m late for a meeting. Sorry, I couldn’t be of more help.”
Logan slid so he was between the professor and the door. “I thought you said your office hours were starting.”
Bin Mehmed tried to edge past him. “Well, I forgot about a meeting I have to attend. Very important meeting. Mandatory, really.”
Logan stepped back and pressed the door closed. His tone turned serious. “Look, professor. Abu Kishaa sent me here to kill you. That’s the truth. I’m not going to kill you. That’s also the truth. You obviously know something about him. You know, or you have something he wants. Something he’s willing to kill you over. What is it?”
Bin Mehmed sank back into his chair. He put his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands. “What is between Abu Kishaa and me is between Abu Kishaa and me.”
Logan responded, “Abu Kishaa and you and the assassins he sent after you.”
“Plural?” Bin Mehmed asked.
“Yes, there’s another. I assume he’s on his way here. Unlike me, he will kill you. What do you know?”
Bin Mehmed chuckled. “Everything. I know everything.”
Logan sat down in the chair opposite his desk. “Meaning?”
Bin Mehmed sipped from a coffee cup but scowled at the cold coffee. He set it back down. “His name isn’t Abu Kishaa. His name is Hasan Bin Mehmed, and he’s my little brother.”
The air was sucked out of the room. Logan sat back in his seat as if punched in the chest. He stared at Bin Mehmed, not sure what to say.
Finally, he managed a stunned, “Abu Kishaa is half Irish?”
Bin Mehmed nodded. “I was born in Jordan, but my parents moved here before Hasan was born. We grew up in Connemara. That’s the secret he’s willing to kill to cover up. He’s just some kid from the Gaeltacht.”
Logan rubbed his forehead. This was more than he was prepared to process. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it.
“How did Hasan become Abu Kishaa?” Logan asked.
Bin Mehmed shrugged and shook his head. “When he was maybe ten years old, he got sick. It was probably the flu. It was pretty bad. One night he ran a high fever, and he said that something came to him in a dream. He said it was like a giant bull. The bull came out of a river and crushed an entire mountain in one step. It spoke to him in a language he didn’t understand, but he felt terrified of it. After that, he started studying a bunch of foreign languages. He studied Irish, middle English, Arabic, Aramaic, tons of stuff trying to figure out what this thing was.”
Logan was enraptured. He leaned forward, “And?”
“Eventually, while he was studying Hebrew in university, he came across the Mesha Stele. It’s the only source of the Moabite language, but you can largely understand it if you speak Hebrew. He said that the bull from his dream was speaking Moabite. So, it must be the Moabite god. He switched his major from linguistics to Near Eastern studies. He has a Ph.D. with a focus on ancient Jordan.”
Logan sighed. That made a lot of sense. It also answered several questions that gnawed at him. Abu Kishaa might be a drug dealer and a potential terrorist, but he came by it honestly. He truly believed he was the son of Chemosh, the god of the Moabites. All because of a fever dream when he was ten.
Logan started putting it all together. “That doesn’t seem like enough to kill for, though. The son of Chemosh can be a kid from Ireland. What do you know about qedex?”
Bin Mehmed groaned and put his head on the desk. “That’s my biggest regret.”
Okay. We’re getting somewhere.
Bin Mehmed lifted his head. “When he was working on his doctoral dissertation, he asked me for help. I’m a Near East scholar, and I wanted to help him. He’s my kid brother. We worked for hours and hours. His focus was on the Eastern Roman Empire in the region. Eventually, we discovered some old texts about silphium. He went to Jordan to try to find it. I don’t know what happened over there, but when he came back, he was different. He wasn’t Hasan anymore. He was Abu Kishaa. We had a big falling out. I haven’t spoken to him since.”
Someone knocked on the door.
Bin Mehmed groaned again. “Office hours.” Then he said, “Come in.”
Logan saw a foot coming through the door. The shoe was a soft, simple shoe like Abu Kishaa’s followers wore when they wore shoes at all.
Logan shouted, “Get down.”
He dove over the desk, hitting Bin Mehmed in the shoulder with his chest. Both of them flipped over the back of Bin Mehmed’s chair, colliding with a stack of books, and collapsing into a heap. Eric came through the door a second later, carrying a hunter’s compound bow. He nocked a bolt and loosed it. The arrow stuck in the wood of the desk, vibrating with a woody twang.
Thank God for Ireland’s gun policy.
If Eric were
a better spy, he would have researched Irish nationalist groups in Northern Ireland, bought an illegal gun off one of them, and smuggled it into the country. Eric’s rookie impatience was the only reason Logan wasn’t lying on the floor bleeding to death.
Logan threw his body on top of Bin Mehmed’s. He grabbed a hardback book from a stack of books. Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita, a history of Rome. He flung it at Eric. The heavy book hit Eric’s arm, sending the next arrow flying off into the wall.
“Eric,” Logan shouted, “are you out of your mind?”
Logan grabbed another book.
Eric nocked another arrow. “Logan, this doesn’t involve you. I don’t want to kill you.”
The arrogance of this kid.
Logan replied, “I promise you that you won’t.”
Logan popped up long enough to throw another book at Eric. Eric dodged out of the way, still trying to aim his bow. The bow was turning out to be a good weapon. He kicked the door closed on the office. The bow was quiet enough that no one in the hallway would hear it. It wouldn’t help as much if Logan could close the space, though.
Logan rolled onto his back and pressed his feet against the heavy wooden desk.
Bin Mehmed whimpered, “What do you want?”
Eric replied, “I am a soldier of Chemosh, and I am here on Chemosh’s business.”
Good God, he’s lost it.
Logan put his legs against the desk and shoved it as hard as he could, sending it sliding across the floor and into Eric’s legs. It caught Eric off guard, and the young spy fell over the top of the desk. Logan sprang to his feet, grabbed Eric by his shirt, and yanked him the rest of the way over the desk.
Eric collapsed on top of them. Logan rolled over, wrapping his right arm around Eric’s neck. He pulled his own arm tight with his left, applying steady pressure. Eric flailed and kicked, clawing at Logan’s face. Logan tilted his head back, trying to protect his eyes. Eric grabbed a handful of Logan’s hair. His grip was already getting weaker, though. His flailing grew weaker and weaker until his arms went limp. His head lolled over to the side. Logan pushed him off of him. Eric lay motionless on the floor.
Logan checked the kid’s pulse and stuck an ear to his nose. He was still breathing, and his pulse was still strong. Good. Hopefully, he would sleep for a while.
Logan got to his feet while Bin Mehmed was shaking in the corner of his office. Logan scanned Bin Mehmed’s desk, found his phone and held it out to the professor.
Logan spoke in his calmest voice. “Call the police. Tell them that someone broke into your office. You hit him with a book and knocked him out. Then, you need to leave. Do you know anywhere you can go?”
Bin Mehmed replied, “I can go back to Connemara, I guess.”
Logan nodded. “That will work. Go to Connemara. Use a fake name. Pay for everything in cash.”
Bin Mehmed whimpered, “For how long?”
Logan shrugged. “Only a few weeks. Maybe two. I’m going back to Jordan right now to deal with Abu Kishaa.”
Bin Mehmed perked up at that. “Deal with him? Do you mean?”
“Kill him.” Logan filled in.
Bin Mehmed nodded.
Logan replied, “Yes. I’m sorry.” It was a terrible thing to tell somebody you would kill his brother, but the world wouldn’t be safe with Abu Kishaa and his qedex. The archaeologist wouldn’t be safe, neither would the Interpol officer and whoever else was on Abu Kishaa’s kill list.
Bin Mehmed hung his head. “Good.”
What? That was unexpected.
Bin Mehmed explained, “If he’s killing people, then he is lost. He must be stopped.”
Logan tossed Bin Mehmed’s phone to him. “Call the police. Goodbye.”
Logan dug around in Eric’s pocket to find the list of names. There were four more names on the list. They didn’t matter much now. He needed to get back to Jordan and kill Abu Kishaa. He just needed to make sure the Irish police didn’t find the list on Eric. That could put them on the trail to Kishaa and get even more people killed. Logan never saw the Brothers fight, but they looked like they knew their way around an AK-47 or a scimitar.
He walked out of the office and then turned and went back.
“Hey, do you know where I could buy an airplane?”
* * *
Buying an airplane in Ireland was probably a bad idea. Pilots are a tight community, and they all seemed to know each other. Logan rented a car in Galway and drove into Northern Ireland. He took the Belfast Cairnryan Ferry to Scotland from there. He would be happy to be free of Ireland and the UK; the islands made Logan claustrophobic. He took a train from Cairnryan to London and rented a car. He bought a Chunnel ticket using an Australian passport to Gare du Nord.
Moving around Western Europe was about as open and free as it got. He always was able to fly out of Belgium without much problem. The number of EU diplomats, business people from around the globe, and countless student backpackers helped him fade into the crowds. He took a train to Brussels. But had to fly commercial to Turkey.
He bought a ticket to Ankara on Adria Airways, possibly the worst airline in the world. The Slovenian carrier was cheap, dirty, and unsafe. The girl at the ticket counter was so thrilled to be selling a ticket she forgot to look at his passport. To Logan’s surprise, it was only an hour late taking off.
Turkey proved to be a problem, however. Logan was detained for almost two hours in Ankara. Never given a clear reason, his backpack and few belongings were nearly shredded as officers searched for whatever they were looking for. Oddly, he was neither searched nor patted down. The money and passports strapped to his midsection were overlooked completely. This was either a case of hassling an obvious westerner or looking for someone to make an example. He decided this kind of scrutiny would make it a mistake to fly any further.
When he was unceremoniously escorted from the airport he flagged a taxi, and took it to the nearest bus station. He was sure it was just fatigue that gave him a sense of being followed. Nevertheless, he bought a ticket and boarded a city bus. After waiting several minutes, he went to the back door and left the bus just as it started away. As previously agreed, he got back in the taxi a block away.
Titus Crow taught him well. He just hoped he was trained better than the people who might be following him. After having the taxi drive around for a few minutes, Logan hopped a bus back to the bus station.
If he was followed, he was sure he shook them. This time he bought a ticket for the seven-hour trip to Gaziantep near the Syrian border. Once seated, Logan leaned his head against the window for a well-deserved nap.
Few people in the world would welcome the sight of the border crossing into a war-torn country, but Logan breathed a sigh of relief at being back in his element. Syria had no rules, no honor, and was home to tens of thousands of refugees, terrorists, and fighters on both sides of the civil war. The perfect place to move freely and perform the task at hand.
Logan entered Syria as a Canadian journalist. The movements of someone writing for an unknown newspaper in the North American country were of little or no concern to those with their eyes on much larger problems.
A hundred yards from the bus station was a small shop selling electronic goods. Logan bought a cheap burner phone. He made one call. The number was burned in his memory and was answered on the third ring.
“Lamb 3887.” Logan spoke with hesitation.
“I heard you became an alligator farmer,” the voice said.
“The hours didn’t suit me.” Logan smiled at his joke.
“Where are you?”
“El Mismyah. I need transport to Jordan. A change of clothes, and a copy of Goldilocks.”
On the very long odds they were being overheard, Goldilocks was an old code for Glock 32.
“Do you want fries with that?” There was a slight chuckle to the voice on the phone.
“Yes, large, please.” Two boxes of ammunition for the gun.
“OK, your location is locked on. Cross the
street, go about two hundred feet to a Falafel shop with a Hawk of Quraish hanging crooked on the sign’s bottom corner. Wait there and my brother Mahdi will get you in about an hour. Be sure and try the hot sauce, really good.” The line went dead.
Logan slid the back off the phone, took out the sim card, and casually dropped the phone in a fly-infested garbage can as he crossed the street.
When he went to the shop he ordered a falafel rolled in flatbread, with pickles, onions, and tomatoes. The waiter set two plastic squirt bottles on the table when Logan’s rolled delight was served. One contained a white cream sauce, the other, a bright red sauce. Logan took the red bottle and was about to squirt it into his unwrapped sandwich. Something in the back of his head scream, STOP!
On the side of his paper plate, Logan squirted a small dot of the sauce. He dipped his finger the spot of red liquid and tasted it. If he were blindfolded, he would have thought they had given him the spilled contents of a decaying barrel of nuclear waste.
“Not this time.” Logan chuckled. It was an old trick, and Logan was known to follow his old friend’s lead. He was learning but still loved the game.
About an hour and a half later, a barrel-chested man, badly in need of a shave, wearing a sweat-stained khaki shirt, entered the shop.
“Logan?” The man said, approaching the table. “How was the hot sauce?”
“Delicious. I used almost half the bottle. How did you know who I was?”
“I was told you would be the ugliest infidel in the place. I don’t see anyone else here, so you win by default. I am Mahdi. Let’s go.”
Logan waved to the shop owner and followed Mahdi to a Land Rover parked in front of the shop next door.
“The door is difficult. You may need to kick it.”
Logan took the door handle in one hand and the bottom of the window and yanked hard. The door opened without a problem. He heard Mahdi chuckle as he closed his door.
“Where are we going?”
“Head for Jordan.”
As they cleared the small town, Logan asked to use the satellite phone mounted on the dash. He called Sydney’s secure phone.
She answered. “Yeah?”
Logan said, “Hi, I’m calling about the music festival. Is it still for six days from now?”
East of the Jordan (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 2) Page 12
