Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (12 page)

Acton stared at him, about to ask why this was unexpected when his friend smiled.

“Because yesterday I moved it for two friggin’ minutes with no problem.”

Acton’s jaw dropped as he stared at his friend, trying to read his face to see if he was joking. “Are-are you serious?”

“Trust me, buddy, I’m a joker, but I wouldn’t shit you about something like that.”

Acton clasped his friend’s shoulder and squeezed, tears welling in his eyes. “That’s incredible news,” he whispered, not trusting his voice to not crack.

Milton patted his friend’s hand. “My daughter was the first to notice it.” His voice cracked at the mention of her. He took a deep breath and smiled. “She was playing some music and I guess I was tapping my toe to it.”

Acton wiped his eyes before the tears poured down his cheeks. He laughed and looked at Milton. “Man, are we ever a couple of old women.”

Milton laughed and punched him in the arm. “There, that make you feel more like a man?”

Acton feigned a punch to Milton’s jaw, laughing. “Better stop, someone’ll think I’m beating up on a cripple.”

Milton pointed at the carousel. “That your bag?” A beat-up, tan canvas bag, issued to Acton in Desert Storm, tumbled from the chute.

Acton nodded and trotted over, grabbing it. He didn’t bother checking the tag, there was no doubt it was his. Although identical to thousands if not millions of others issued over the years, this one had travelled all over the world, had been torn open and patched more times than he could remember. It was his good luck charm. He thought he had lost it after the massacre at the dig site last year, and was delighted to find it when he returned almost six months ago. He pushed the memory away.
Damn, I’m emotional today.
He walked back to where his friend was waiting.

“Come, let’s go back to my place,” said Milton. “Sandra has the spare bedroom all made up for you, and a proper dinner waiting.”

“Sounds good, I’m famished.”

“So am I,” said Milton as he pushed hard on the wheels, surging slightly ahead of Acton. “The damned woman wouldn’t let me eat!”

Acton laughed and jogged ahead, hitting the handicap button on the door leading to the parking lot. “That sounds like Sandra.”

“Speaking of the women we love,” said Milton as he squeezed out the exit. “Laura wants you to call her as soon as you get in.” He reached in his pocket and handed Acton the keys to his van. “I’d suggest you take a shower first, she’s liable to smell you over the line.”

Acton chuckled. “Maybe you think I stink too much to help you in that tricked out van you’ve got?”

Milton raised his arms in mock apology. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You smell like roses. Fertilized roses. But roses nonetheless.”

Acton shook his head, smiling. He had missed his friend. After six months on the dig, it was great to see him in such good spirits. He raised the fob and pressed the button to unlock the doors. He opened the passenger side, leaned forward, and picked up his friend. “Jesus Christ, you weigh a ton!” He let out an exaggerated groan as he placed him in the passenger seat.

Milton feigned hurt feelings. “I’ll have you know, that once I can move all ten damned toes, I’ll start losing this weight, but you’ll always be a heartless asshole.”

Acton flipped him the bird and slammed the passenger door shut, a grin spread across his face as he folded up the chair and placed it in the back of the van. He climbed in the driver’s seat and started it up. Megadeth roared from the speakers. Milton’s hand darted for the volume as he turned it down, but not off.

Acton shook his head in mock disapproval. “Oh, if only the alumni knew.”

Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site

Laura jumped in a jeep parked at the camp’s edge, beckoning to Mitchell to get in the passenger seat. He hesitated.

“What?”

“Forgive me, Professor.” Mitchell stared at his feet for a moment, then spurted, “Well, mum, your driving is, shall we say, legendary?”

Laura laughed. “Get in, I promise I’ll go slow.”

Mitchell didn’t look convinced but climbed into the passenger seat and reached for his seatbelt as Laura started the engine, shoved it in gear and floored it, kicking up sand and a cloud of dust as the jeep leapt forward. She glanced over at Mitchell and laughed as she eased off the gas. “I’ll need you to open your eyes so you can tell me how to get to their camp.”

“Of course, mum,” stuttered Mitchell as he opened his eyes a crack. A look of relief spread across his face as she drove at what he considered a reasonable speed. He pointed at a road to the right. “Take that, it will lead directly to their camp.”

Laura nodded and followed the road, or rather indentation in the sand, as it climbed a long, gradual rise. As they crested the top, the jeep tilted forward and began a rapid descent down the much steeper hillside. Below them stood half a dozen tents, and several lorries parked together, facing away from the camp. Several men stood near them, appearing, in her mind, a little too nervous. In the center of the circle of tents a UN flag fluttered in the slight breeze.

UN? Here?
As they approached several men exited the tents and walked toward them. She halted several feet away and turned off the engine.

“How can we help you?” asked one man as he walked up, a broad smile on his face. Laura and Mitchell climbed out. Laura rounded the front of the vehicle and took the hand extended to her, shaking it firmly.

“I’m Professor Laura Palmer, University College London,” said Laura. “And you are?”

“Jack Russell, UNICEF.”

Laura looked around. “May I ask why UNICEF is here of all places?”

Russell laughed. “You got me! After your boy here”—he motioned to Mitchell—“asked us the same thing yesterday, we started looking at our maps and realized we were in the wrong place. Somebody”—he jacked his thumb at one of his companions who immediately stared at the ground—“programmed the wrong coordinates into the GPS. We’ve been trying to get a line to our HQ but our sat phone isn’t working. As a matter of fact I was about to come over and see if we could borrow yours.”

Laura smiled, relieved there might not be a confrontation after all. “Of course, why don’t you jump in with us, and we’ll head back to my camp. Terrence can bring you back.”

“Why, that’d be mighty nice of you, ma’am.” He turned to the others milling about. “I’ll be back in half, hopefully with proper coordinates.”

The three climbed in the jeep, this time with Mitchell relegated to the back seat. As Laura turned the jeep around, she glanced in her rearview mirror, and saw the door on the back of one of the trucks open, revealing at least half a dozen computer screens, all lit, with two men sitting inside. The truck snapped from view as the jeep began its steep ascent. She glanced over at Russell who was staring at her, the same smile still chiseled on his face. Her heart pounded in her chest.
If they have that kind of equipment, why would they have only one sat phone? And wrong coordinates? Are you kidding me?

She forced herself to smile. “So, when you finally get to where you’re going, what will you be doing there?”

Russell glanced back at the road as they crested the top of the hill. “Digging wells for a remote village. It’s amazing how much of a difference a ready supply of clean water can make to the lives of these people.”

Laura nodded. “Indeed.”

“That sounds like more of an Ethiopian thing rather than an Egyptian thing,” piped Mitchell from the back seat.

Laura glanced in her rearview mirror but resisted the urge to glare at her grad student. “Be polite, Terrence. We’re archaeologists. What do we know about wells?” Before Mitchell could reply, she glanced at Russell. “So how long will you be in the village?”

“Only a few days I suspect. We’ll need to find a good location, quite often the first few tries end up dry. Hopefully not too long, we have several villages we’re visiting on this trip.”

They made the turn into the camp and Laura brought the jeep to a stop near her tent. “Come with me, I’ll get you the phone.”

Russell followed Laura into the tent, with Mitchell bringing up the rear. Russell stopped in the entranceway of the tent, enjoying the cool air inside. “This is sweet!” He took a deep breath and pulled at his shirt, separating it from his sweat soaked chest. “Quite the set-up you’ve got here.”

“Thanks,” said Laura as she grabbed the sattelite phone off her table and handed it to Russell. “Here you go, hopefully you can get through.”

Russell nodded and rapidly dialed a number. After a few seconds he gave a thumbs up. “Tim, it’s Jack Russell. Look, no time for small talk, I’m on someone else’s sat phone here, and these things are expensive! I need you to give me the GPS coordinates we were supposed to go to, we’ve got the wrong ones.” He turned to Laura and circled his hand in the air, motioning for something to write with. Laura handed him a pad and pencil and Russell jotted down a set of numbers. “Thanks, Tim, gotta go!” He hung up and returned the phone to Laura, then ripped off the top sheet from the pad. He shook the paper in the air. “Now we can get to where we’re supposed to be!” he said, laughing as he folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. “Now, I’d best be getting out of your way.” He turned to Mitchell. “Can you give me a lift back to my camp?”

Mitchell nodded. Laura rounded the table and extended her hand. Russell shook it. “Thanks again for your help, ma’am. It’s mighty appreciated.”

“No problem at all,” smiled Laura. “Have a safe journey.”

“Will do, will do.” He followed Mitchell out to the jeep, leaving Laura in the tent alone. She sat down at the table, and when she heard the jeep pull away, she picked up the pad Russell had written on, grabbed the pencil, and lying it on its edge, gently rubbed the lead across the pad, slowly revealing the numbers he had written. They were indeed a set of coordinates. She flipped open her laptop and typed the coordinates into Google Earth and she gasped.

They were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

Alamut, Persia

December 16, 1256 AD

Faisal pressed against the wall, the reassuring hand of Hasni gently holding him back as he and the others strained to look. The cave entrance they occupied concealed a tunnel, carved centuries before by some unknown combination of the elements and previous tenants of Alamut, an escape route used over the years to clandestinely smuggle operatives in and out of the oft watched fortress, to stage sneak attacks upon their enemies who may have tried to attack their stronghold in the past, and today, as a means of preserving The Order.

Hasni turned to face the group of two dozen men gathered in the cave and whispered, “I see four horses one hundred-foot from the entrance. We must be quick and quiet.”

Faisal and the others nodded as they unsheathed their daggers. Hasni and several more experienced warriors led the way, creeping from the entrance, searching about for their foes. Five paces from the entrance Hasni crouched and raised his fist, signaling the others to stop. He pointed to the top of a nearby boulder upon which two men stood, their backs to them as they stared up at the fort. Hasni slowly unfurled his bola, signaling another to do the same. Unsheathed, they began swinging them over their heads, then, as if reading each other’s minds, unleashed them at their targets. The bolas found their marks, the heavy balls at each end propelling the ropes around their victims’ necks, cutting off their windpipes, silencing them. The men clutched at the ropes, but it was no use. Hasni and the other yanked on the cords attached to their Hassassin designed bolas, pulling the men over the edge of the boulder, and onto the hard rock-strewn surface below. Hasni and his partner rushed the men, finishing them off with their daggers, then retrieved their bolas from around their victims’ lifeless throats.

Faisal’s heart pounded with a combination of fear and excitement when he heard a noise to his left. No one else had reacted; he must have been the only one to hear it. He slowly walked toward where he had heard the noise and suddenly he found himself face to face with two Mongols who appeared as surprised to see him as he was them. They both opened their mouths to shout as they reached for their swords. Faisal pulled two short knives from his belt, one with each hand, and threw them, each blade burying itself deep in the throats of his opponents. They collapsed to the ground in a gurgling heap as he watched them struggle to pull out the blades as the life slowly drained from them.

He heard the sound of rocks shifting on the ground behind him. He spun, his hand reaching for his scimitar, but breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Master Hasni approach him, a slight smile of approval on his face. He patted Faisal on the back, nodding, as he surveyed the handiwork of his star pupil.

They split into two groups and slowly rounded the large boulder from both sides, carefully searching for companions to the four they had already slain, and found none. From the mountain top above, they heard cheers as the Mongol colors rose above the lookout tower once housing the central chamber of the mighty Hassassin.

Tears flowed freely on the steppes that day, freely from some of the toughest warriors to have ever walked the earth, and none felt any shame. Faisal was one of them. His heart tightened in his chest, his stomach ached as if cleaved hollow. He looked at his master and saw that he too wept without shame.

After a few minutes, Master Hasni cleared his throat, and the two dozen warriors that remained turned to face him, leaving the tears they had wept upon their cheeks.

“Today is indeed a sad day,” began Hasni. “As I look upon our home and see the fires set by the hordes who would corrupt Islam, I weep. My heart is heavy with the loss. We have lost thousands of our brothers today, but we have survived. And there are more of us out there. It is now our duty to rebuild. We must find our brothers who do not know what has occurred here today. We must find our brethren, and rebuild. For if we do not, Islam as the Prophet Mohammad, peace be upon him, envisioned it, is lost, and so too is the balance between Islam and Christianity.”