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

by Micheal Maxwell

  She paused for a moment. Then, she said, “If you say so.”

  She hung up.

  The satellite phone displayed the coordinates of Sydney’s phone. He showed them to Mahdi.

  “Four hours, maybe a bit less.”

  The air conditioning in the Rover worked sporadically at best. Logan leaned his head against the window and rested his eyes. Soon he was in a deep sleep. The longest part of the journey was on a highway that, at one time, was smooth and well maintained. A bombing by a roadside improvised explosive device and military traffic laid waste to long stretches of the road. Other sections were still in good shape except for the craters that Mahdi occasionally dodged at the last second. Logan would rouse momentarily, then go back to sleep.

  After two stops for Mahdi to relieve himself in the sand next to the road, they arrived at their destination.

  Logan left Mahdi in the desert a mile outside of Abu Kishaa’s camp. He knew that Abu Kishaa would have the Brothers doing patrols on four-wheelers and dirt bikes. He figured he could proceed unseen alone and on foot better than in the Range Rover.

  A small wadi ran underneath a ledge just below the camp. From his vantage point, Logan couldn’t count the number of vehicles or personnel protecting the base. It was a great place to grow a commune without being molested by either side of the conflict. There were no towns, no water, and nowhere to put a landing strip that wouldn’t require a sizable investment.

  They had just three days to put together an assault on Abu Kishaa’s camp. Logan pulled out the business card given to him by the Ethiopian agent and called the number for Agent Haile Gibran. Gibran picked up on the second ring.

  The voice on the other end said, “This is Gibran.”

  Logan put on a fake chipper voice. “Hey, I’m calling about the music festival.”

  “What music festival?”

  “I was in Addis Ababa. I saw a flyer on a park bench for a music festival in the desert in Jordan.”

  “Okay.”

  Logan said, “It’s three days from now, right? At sundown?”

  “You’ve got the wrong number, kid.” Hail Gibran responded. “There are eighteen things I’d rather do than attend some festival in the desert. Those things are louder than a helicopter, you know. Could be dangerous.”

  He hung up.

  It was always tricky working with agents from outside of his own circle. He didn’t have a chance to set up a code system with Haile Gibran. That was partially because Gibran didn’t trust him, and there was no reason to. Logan didn’t trust Eric by that point, either. He was right not to, it seemed. Numbers were usually a good giveaway, though. He said, “eighteen things.” That probably meant he was bringing an eighteen-person team. Was that going to be enough? Then he’d said they were louder than a helicopter. That was an indication he was bringing a helicopter.

  Okay, so eighteen Interpol agents would be arriving by helicopter at sundown.

  He called Sydney again.

  Sydney answered with an exasperated sigh. “What?”

  “The party’s at sundown, right?”

  “Whatever you say. Don’t call me again.” She hung up.

  The party was scheduled. Now, Logan needed to do some reconnaissance. He made his way back to the road and Mahdi.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The sun was beginning to set over Abu Kishaa’s camp. Sydney sat on the back of a truck, watching the sun fall in the distance. One of the Brothers stood next to the bed of the vehicle. Was he a guardian or a prison guard?

  Abu Kishaa vanished hours ago to do whatever it was he usually did. He would have to come back at some point, though. He’d promised the king of Jordan that he would split the moon, whatever that meant.

  A pair of headlights broke her calm contemplation of the setting sun. The headlights started as tiny bobbing lights in the distance, like a twin pair of stars flickering. Eventually, they grew larger until they created a shape of their own. They bounced across the desert in tandem. The two headlights were soon joined by four more and then about ten more. It was an entire convoy of cars headed towards the camp, probably about eight in total.

  As the convoy got closer, Sydney could see that they were all black SUVs with bulletproof doors and windows. The SUVs pulled into a circle and stopped. The doors opened in unison. Several men in black suits stepped out of them. Each car seemed to hold two men in black suits with white shirts and black ties. They wore earpieces and carried pistols.

  The busy activity around the camp came to a stop when the SUVs pulled up. Everybody stopped to watch. One of the men in black walked to an SUV in the middle and opened the door.

  Abu Kishaa stepped out of the SUV in his typical linen pants and shirt with no shoes. He extended his hand back into the SUV. The princess of Jordan took his hand and climbed out of the truck. She wore a long-sleeved floor-length dress cinched at her waist with a wide belt. Her hair flowed in waves around her, lit up by the burning barrel fires.

  Abu Kishaa and Princess Ilham walked through the camp, holding hands. Their fingers were laced together, and Ilham stopped a few times to whisper something in Abu Kishaa’s ear. He smiled whenever she did.

  Sydney’s heart rate sped up. She felt a hard knot in her stomach. She knew the feeling by now. It was jealousy. The way they held hands and the way she whispered in his ear, it was clear they’d slept together. And all of that poetic nonsense he said to me. I didn’t seduce him. He knew the entire time that I would come to him. Then he acted all “golly gee” and “aw, shucks.” I’m such an idiot. Sydney shook her head in frustration.

  She felt a mixture of shame, anger, and unwelcome jealousy. She stormed off, headed back towards her camp. Even as she stomped away, she knew it looked like something an angry teenager might do, but it felt good. Hopefully, Abu Kishaa would notice her stalking away and at least feel bad for how he’d played with her. But he probably wouldn’t.

  At sundown in three days, she would be done with Abu Kishaa forever. She went back to her tent to start planning how she would respond to whatever Logan and Eric planned. She didn’t know what they were going to do, but Logan must have something in the works. They would likely try to move stealthily to capture Abu Kishaa. She would need to be able to get away as quickly as possible. There would be chaos when the camp followers woke up and realized he was gone.

  She would need a gun too. Preferably, something long with a scope on it. Okay, Sydney, think. How do you turn your current situation into an advantage? She attempted to seduce Abu Kishaa, thinking that would get him off his guard. Instead, it was actually part of his plan and she had been played. Now, she was jealous and feeling like an idiot. How could she turn that into an advantage?

  She smiled and slapped her leg as she realized exactly how to turn this around. What would a jealous woman do? Sleep with Abu Kishaa’s friends. Specifically, she needed one of Abu Kishaa’s friends with a gun. She headed to find Hiba.

  The Florida botanist was in her tent with the flap open. She was lying on her back on the ground with her head propped up against a pillow. Her mouth was hanging open, and her head darted around the room as if she was watching something fly around. She didn’t even notice Sydney walk in. She was hallucinating and out of her mind on qedex.

  “Hey, Hiba,” Sydney said.

  Hiba just grunted in response.

  Sydney said, “You mind if I take a rock?”

  Hiba just grunted again. She guessed that meant yes.

  Sydney dug in a bag Hiba kept in her tent and always kept on her when they were harvesting qedex. For every pound they gathered, Hiba seemed to take a fist-sized rock for herself. Sydney didn’t know if the stuff was addictive or not. There just wasn’t enough research on it yet. However, she misplaced her bag one time and flew into a rage like an addict.

  Sydney dug in the bag and pulled out a rock of qedex the size of a golf ball. She’d never seen anybody exposed to that much. It could be enough to kill a Brother. She hoped not, but after she saw the way
the Brothers sliced through the young boys hoping to join, she wouldn’t be worried if a few of them dropped dead.

  She shoved the block of qedex in her pocket and said, “Thanks, Hiba.”

  Hiba grunted, “And the moon was cleft asunder.”

  Oh, that’s right. Abu Kishaa is supposed to be splitting the moon tonight for the Jordanian princess. Whatever that means.

  Sydney left the tent and headed for the edge of camp, where she knew a Brother would be standing watch next to a barrel fire. She hoped he was at least a good-looking Brother. They all covered their faces, though.

  She wove her way through the sea of tents and trucks. Some of the followers waved to her or nodded at her. She was pretty well-known in camp. Eventually, she got to the edge where there were barrel fires and not much else. A Brother stood next to one of the fires, arms folded and resting on the butt of his AK-47. He didn’t look like the vigilant warrior he was supposed to be. Frankly, he looked bored. That was good.

  Sydney crept as quietly as she could. She bounced the brick of qedex in her hand like a baseball. She needed to lob it into the fire next to him quietly enough that he didn’t notice. Then, she needed to let it burn for long enough that he felt its effects. Once it burned out and he was hallucinating, she could peel him away from camp. The first step was tossing the qedex.

  She debated overhand or underhand. Eventually, she settled on shooting it like a basketball. She was a much better shot with a rifle than with a ball, but she was no slouch. She set her feet and took a few steadying breaths. She lifted her hand to her ear and flicked the rock, being sure to extend through the shot like her middle school basketball coach taught her. The rock flipped end over end through the air. The shot looked good. There was a nice arc on it, so it wouldn’t ring the side of the barrel. She held her breath as it arced through the air.

  The rock plopped in the middle of the burning barrel without so much as a sound. Sydney let out a relieved breath. The fire cracked, and a few green flames licked towards the sky. The dancing green flames and the pale smoke wafted towards the Brother. He didn’t seem to notice. Sydney dropped down to her knees and pretended to pray while she watched and waited for the qedex to burn out. A woman praying in the middle of the sand wasn’t a particularly unique sight at the camp, so no one would think much of it.

  The qedex burned for about ten minutes. The Brother, who initially looked bored, now began to look around as if something was just at the edge of his vision, and he kept missing it. He stared up at the sky. His mouth opened as his head moved side to side, following something that only he could see.

  When the green flames stopped, Sydney made her approach. She walked over to the Brother and slipped her arm through his arm.

  He gave a startled jerk when she touched him. In Arabic, he said, “Oh, ummm, oh. Hello.”

  Sydney leaned against him. “Hey, I’m really sorry, this is stupid, but I need to go pee. The camp is too crowded. I need privacy.”

  His voice was thick and slurry. “That’s fine. Do whatever you want.”

  “I’m scared, though.” Sydney leaned her head against his arm. “Oh, your muscles are so hard. Wow.” She squeezed his arm. “So hard.”

  He mumbled, “Oh, you know, I, uhh, the sword. Swinging it. I swing with my arms.”

  She was starting to think she gave him too much. His words were all mashed together and barely comprehensible.

  “I bet it does swing,” she said, giggling. “Will you walk me out there?”

  “I’m supposed to watch. I watch for the things.”

  Sydney rubbed his arm. “But I need you to watch for me. It’ll be really quick.”

  She tugged at his arm as she walked towards the desert. He stumbled more than walked as he was pulled along by Sydney and by the qedex. To anyone watching, it would look like Sydney seduced one of the Brothers and convinced him to leave his post to go roll around with her in the desert. Abandoning his post would likely get him executed, but this was war by different means. In war, fighters die.

  She dragged and tugged him along until they were out of sight of the camp. They were alone in the cold desert with a chilly wind blowing across the sand.

  “Is this far enough?” He mumbled.

  Sydney replied, “I think so.”

  She formed her hand into a knife-edge and hit him on the side of the neck, slapping his carotid artery as hard as she could with the side of her hand. He gasped and grabbed his neck, stumbling backward.

  Dang. Not hard enough.

  She ran after him and leaped feet first. Her feet caught him in the chest, and she kicked out with all of her strength. He flew backward, crashing into the sand. His rifle went skittering across the desert floor. The back of his head hit the sand. He let out a choked gasp but didn’t get up.

  Okay. Good enough.

  She grabbed the rifle and strapped it to her chest underneath her abaya. She let the long cloak fall over the gun. As long as she walked carefully, no one would see it. She got herself situated and walked back to camp. She reentered the ring of burning barrels, but nobody seemed to pay much attention to her. She headed straight for her tent.

  The camp was buzzing by the time she got back to her tent. People were milling around, going from tent to tent. It felt like a state fair. Some people were outside of their tents, praying on their knees. Others were sitting in the beds of trucks, visiting with each other. They were all talking loudly and excitedly to themselves. Everyone seemed to be excited about the moon splitting. Sydney admitted she was pretty interested in the moon splitting too. The moon wasn’t going to break, but she wanted to see what Abu Kishaa was thinking.

  She slipped into her tent and pulled the AK-47 out of her abaya. She stuffed it under her sleeping bag and rearranged it so the bag looked flat. As long as no one looked under her sleeping bag or sat on her cot, she would be fine.

  She straightened her abaya and stepped back into the night air. Barrel fires were burning everywhere she looked. The fires danced with green flame occasionally. Sydney groaned. The Brothers tossed qedex into all of the fire barrels. She was growing tired of hallucinating constantly. What would the qedex do to her long-term health? For all she knew, she was already addicted to the stuff. It was just so often burning in the camp that she didn’t have a chance to even miss it. After this was all over, would she experience some hellacious withdrawal?

  She stepped out into the acrid smoke to find a spot to watch the moon splitting. A Brother walked up to her and grabbed her arm. Her breath caught in her throat. Oh, God, does he know?

  He said, “Abu Kishaa would like you to experience the miracle with his other wives.”

  Other wives? Goodness, gracious. There are others? How many? How did I not know? How could I be so stupid?

  The Brother pointed the way. Before he let her go, he said, “Queen, I would advise you to be more discreet in the future. The Brothers are at your service, but Abu Kishaa might grow angry.”

  So, her gamble worked. The Brothers thought she ran off into the desert to sleep with one of them. They must have told Kishaa, though.

  If they told Abu Kishaa, he made no mention of it. He sat on the bed of a truck with three women. One of them was Princess Ilham of Jordan. Another was one of the camp followers she didn’t recognize. The last one seemed familiar, but Sydney couldn’t place where she’d seen her before. She was black with a glimmering black afro and fire engine red lipstick. Instead of an abaya, the woman wore a long-sleeved dress that went down to her knees. She sat with one leg crossed over the other and the regal air of a queen.

  Abu Kishaa smiled. He took Sydney’s hand and kissed it. “Hello, my love. I’m glad you are here to experience the wonders.”

  Sydney shook the hands of Abu Kishaa’s other wives in turn. Were they as furiously jealous as she was? If they were, they didn’t show it.

  The camp follower shook her hand. In Arabic, she said, “Hello, I’m Fatima.”

  The black woman shook Sydney’s hand and sai
d, “Meena.”

  That’s where Sydney knew her from. This was Meena Kallimachi, a television journalist from Al-Jazeera.

  Sydney shook her hand. “From Al-Jazeera?”

  Meena nodded.

  “Do you produce your own segments? Like the ones you do about Abu Kishaa?”

  Meena patted a camera bag next to her. “I film them, edit them, and send them in all myself. Our husband is truly astonishing.”

  Oh, I bet you edit them alright. I bet you add some fire shooting out of his hands or some floating through the sky.

  Sydney smiled. She’d become a spy partially because she loved puzzles. Spying was a life or death puzzle, and she couldn’t see the picture on the box. This image was coming together, though. Abu Kishaa kept his followers constantly hallucinating, so they thought he was performing miracles. Then, his wife at Al-Jazeera could edit the footage so that the video showed him doing miracles too. Simple yet effective.

  Abu Kishaa stood up from the truck bed. “Now that all of my wives are here, I can proceed.”

  He kissed each of them one after the other. They were full, deep kisses on the mouth. When he came to Sydney, she wanted to recoil, but she needed to play the role of dutiful wife. She kissed him, and then, without thinking, she parted her mouth a little. How did he pull her back to him so easily? That wasn’t a camera trick. His magnetism was a real power he possessed. After he kissed them all, Abu Kishaa walked around the truck. Sydney studied the eyes of his wives. They smiled and watched him with amazement. They weren’t acting; they were truly enthralled by him.

  Kishaa climbed onto the truck’s roof, and the wives turned so they could all watch from below. Qedex smoke swirled heavily in the air.

  Abu Kishaa lifted his hands, and the camp grew quiet. He yelled without straining his voice, another talent.

  “Followers of Chemosh, I have spoken with my father. Tonight, he has permitted me to perform a wonder for you that you might see a great work. The hour of his return grows ever nearer. The Quran, written by blasphemers of the Quraysh tribe, says that the false prophet Muhammad once split the moon. You know this to be a lie. Only Chemosh gives his followers such power, and Chemosh knows not this man called Muhammad.”