Infidels (9 page)

“Of
course they are,” said Josh as Atlas caught him out of the corner of his eye
squatting and using the desert sand to help clean himself before using the
water and t-shirts. “That Prince was in on whatever was going on from the
get-go. And the shit he was spewing, man, that’s gotta ruffle some Muslim
feathers.”

“It
doesn’t take much.”

Josh
laughed, the sloshing of the canteen suggesting he was entering the final phase
of his ablutions. “This was pretty radical stuff. To claim the Black Stone was
a blasphemous idol is pretty out there, but hey, no skin off my nose if they
want to destroy the thing.”

Atlas
turned in surprise, then jerked his head away. “Sorry, dude. What do you mean,
destroy?”

“That
was the whole purpose of this thing. It didn’t make sense at the time, but they
were talking about destroying something. When I saw the Black Stone sitting in
the tent, I thought it was some sort of replica, a prop for his speech. But after
the attack they interrogated one of the surviving Qarmatians and he told them
it was real. These new guys didn’t believe it.” A zipper fastened. “Oh man,
does that feel so much better. You can look now.”

Atlas
turned toward Josh, the man kicking sand over the soiled orange jumpsuit before
pouring water over his hands and using sand as an abrasive. “Probably best if I
try to keep my hands out of my mouth until I find a shower.”

Atlas
chuckled, nodding back toward the camp. “We better get back.”

Josh stretched,
raising his elbows then twisting back and forth. “Man, I thought I was going to
die in that box.” He started up the dune, Atlas slightly behind him. Josh
paused. “Did you find it?”

“Find
what?”

“The
Black Stone?”

Atlas
nodded. “Yes.”

“So it
wasn’t destroyed.”

“No, it
wasn’t.”

“Good.
I’d hate to see what would happen if it was. They kill each other now because
of who succeeded their prophet over a thousand years ago. I can just imagine
what would happen if some of them destroyed their rock.”

Atlas frowned.

And
what would happen if they found out an American Special Forces unit had it?

Mecca, Saudi Arabia

Professor Mahmoud Hamidullah bolted upright in bed, wondering what
had woken him. He glanced at his bedside table, the alarm clock’s harsh red
numerals far too close to midnight than he’d like.

3:32
am?

He was
exhausted, and the last thing he needed was to be woken in the middle of the
night, this one of the most stressful times of the year for his line of work, work
that had been halted unexpectedly. Inexplicably, really. He was part of the
team that would service the damaged Black Stone, and now, when he and the team
should be hard at work, they were idle with no official explanation.

The
unofficial explanation was obvious.

Prince
Khalid was a traitor.

Yet with
Ramadan fast approaching, the necessary work had to be completed, which was why
there were tight schedules with no room for deviation built into them. The
Black Stone was inspected during the cleaning of the Kaaba ceremony exactly
thirty days before the Hajj and the beginning of Ramadan. Should a problem be
found, exactly seven days later the relic would be brought to the Umm Al-Qura
University under ceremonial guard by the governor of Mecca—currently Prince
Khalid—to be repaired. Repairs were almost always routine, so this left them
three full weeks to get the work done, it rarely taking more than a week. There
were ready duplicates for all parts of the structure supporting the shattered
stone, the only portion truly holy the fragments themselves. Every attempt was
always made to preserve the original frame for historical purposes, but should
that not be possible, a substitute would be made so there was no risk of not
being ready before the Hajj or Ramadan began.

It was
important work, work he was proud to take part in, and work he felt deep in his
soul brought him closer to God.

But now
he had been sent home, told to await instructions. It had been a trying evening
with sleep eluding him until only an hour before.

Three
sharp raps at the door had him swinging his legs out of the bed as he realized
what had woken him.

“What is
it?”

He
looked at his wife as she rolled over toward him.

“Somebody’s
at the door.”

She sat
up, concern on her face, for in Saudi Arabia, good news never arrived at night.
“Who could it be?”

He shook
his head, tying his robe around his waist. “You better put something on just in
case.”

She
nodded, fear replacing concern. With everything that had happened over the past
couple of days things were tense in the streets. Everyone connected to Prince
Khalid had been questioned after the attack, some hauled away for further
interrogation, some not seen since.

It had
been a witch-hunt.

When he
had been questioned he had been asked what he figured were routine questions
involving the attack at Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque, and thought nothing more of
it. Yet after the broadcast everything had changed.

The
questioning had stopped.

Instead
he had been called in and rather than being questioned further, he was given an
explanation.

“It was
a faked broadcast, the Prince is safe, he was never kidnapped.”

He
didn’t dare question these new “facts”.

Now he
worried if the authorities were cleaning up their mess. If the Prince was never
kidnapped, then why had they been asking questions about his kidnapping? Were
they now arresting anyone they had interrogated so no one would question the
new party line?

“Who is
it?”

“State
Security. Open the door.”

He
nearly released his bladder.

He
unlocked the door and opened it, a man standing in the darkness, his features
hidden by the lack of light. Mahmoud was about to ask him to come inside when the
man stepped in himself, another man he hadn’t seen emerging from the shadows to
follow.

“Wh-what
is this about?”

“You are
Professor Mahmoud Hamidullah of Umm Al-Qura University?”

Mahmoud
nodded. “Yes.”

“You
know a Professor James Acton of St. Paul’s University?”

Mahmoud’s
eyes narrowed, confused.
Professor Acton? Why would they be asking about
him?
He nodded. “Yes.”

The man
pointed at a nearby table and the second man stepped over to it, opening up a
briefcase, a computer monitor flashing to life, casting a pale glow over his
living room.

“Are you
alone?”

“No. My
wife is here, and two of my children still live at home.”

A light
flicked on, bathing the entire room in a warm, yellow glow. “What’s going on?”

He spun
toward his wife’s voice, the two men merely looking at her casually, as if not
surprised at all.

“Have
your wife make certain the children remain in their room. No one can hear our
conversation. And turn out that light.”

He
rushed over to his wife, flicking the light switch, then taking her hands in
his as he urged her back down the hallway toward the bedrooms.

“What’s
going on?” she whispered, the fear evident in her face.

“I don’t
know. They asked about an American professor I know.”

Her hand
darted to his chest as a breath caught in her throat. “That doesn’t sound
good.”

“I don’t
know. They don’t seem like the people I’ve dealt with before.” He stopped at
the room with their two boys. “Just stay here, make sure no one interrupts us.
Should something happen, take the boys to my father’s house. He’ll know what to
do.”

She
nodded, pushing herself up on her toes and giving him a kiss on his cheek. “I
love you.”

He
smiled, giving her a quick hug. “And I you.” He quickly returned to the living
room to see the computer, or whatever it was, showing some sort of video. It
took him a moment to realize it was a live camera shot of the American
archeologist he had dealt with on several occasions, Professor James Acton.

“Professor
Acton needs to speak with you.”

The
words were delivered in English this time, their entire conversation to this
point in Arabic.

And the
accent sounded American.

Who
are
these people?

He sat
in front of the computer, a small window on the screen showing his own image.
He repositioned himself so Acton could see him properly.

“Hello
Mahmoud, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour.”

“I-it’s
no bother,” he replied, his voice as shaky as his hands.

He
gripped his knees.

“Mahmoud,
I need your help.
We
need your help.”

Mahmoud
glanced at the other two men, getting the sense they weren’t the ‘we’ he was
talking about. “How can I assist you?”

“I’m
sending you photos of an object
we’ve
recovered.”

Images
began to flash on the screen and he gasped, it clear what they were. The Black
Stone and its frame. Then his eyes narrowed as he noticed it was in some sort
of crate. He let out the breath he had been holding as he realized this was
merely a replica.

“What am
I looking at?”

“That’s
what I need you to tell me.”

“Well,
it appears to be a replica of the Black Stone.”

“Are you
certain?”

Mahmoud’s
eyes narrowed slightly. “Professor, a man of your renown knows what this is.”

“Oh, I
know it’s the Black Stone. That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Then
what
are
you asking?”

“I’m
asking if you’re certain it’s a replica.”

Mahmoud’s
eyebrows shot up his forehead as his eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped. He
snapped it shut as the implications of the question caused his heart to pound
in his chest. An American professor he barely knew didn’t contact him over what
appeared to be some sort of secret satellite communications device in the
middle of the night unless he firmly believed that what he had found may
actually be genuine.

And that
had to be impossible.

Hadn’t
it?

“It has
to be, I mean, it can’t be real. It…”

His
voice trailed off as he began to think about the past several days. There had
been an attack at the mosque during the ritual and the Prince taken. Then the
Prince appeared on television with what was assumed to be a fake Black Stone.

Could
it have been real?

“We have
a witness who says they were Qarmatians, and that Prince Khalid was one of them.”

Mahmoud
nearly fainted, gripping the arms of his chair tightly as Acton’s words sank
in.

Qarmatians!

They
were a group long dead, relegated to the dust of history over a thousand years
ago, but they had been the only group to successfully steal the Black Stone and
hold it for a lofty ransom, returning it damaged over twenty years later.

And if
the Prince considered himself a Qarmatian, then the Black Stone was almost
certainly genuine.

But
surely they couldn’t keep this secret?

“Wh-what
do you want from me?”

“We need
to know if what we’ve found is genuine or not.”

“You
have it?”

Acton
shook his head. “No. Let’s say
friends
of mine have it. They need to
know if it is genuine and should be protected, or if it’s a fake and can be
abandoned.”

Mahmoud
clasped his hands in front of his face as he leaned forward, elbows on his
knees. “If it were real…”

“Then we
need to get it back to Mecca.”

“But
how?”

“We’ll
worry about that once we know whether or not it’s real. Do you have any idea
how we might find out?”

“I would
need to see it for myself.”

“I’m
told that’s not possible.”

Mahmoud
frowned, his clasped fingers bouncing off his chin repeatedly. He stopped. “I
can go to the Kaaba in the morning. My position permits me. If it’s genuine or
fake, I should be able to tell.”

“Okay,
be careful.”

“I’ll
call you as soon as I know.”

Houthi Rebel Encampment, North-Western Yemen

“Roger that Control, Bravo Zero-Two, out.”

Red
looked at the others who had heard the secure communication as well. “Looks
like we’re here for a while.”

“Lovely,”
said Atlas, looking to the east, the first sliver of sunlight barely visible on
the horizon. “It’s going to be too damned hot too damned soon.”

Red
nodded toward one of the supply tents. “They’ve got plenty of food and water,
so we’ll be fine. Control says other than a single vehicle about five miles
north of here there’s nobody in the area.” He looked over at the crate with the
relic, now sitting outside in anticipation of a rapid retrieval. Beside it sat
the sack with the Prince’s head in it.

That’s
going to be attracting flies soon.

“Once
this friend of Professor Acton’s confirms it one way or the other, we’re out of
here.”

“Control
said he was going there in the morning. What does that mean?” asked Spock.

“Civilians,”
muttered Jimmy. “Waay too imprecise.”

“Just be
thankful the Doc knew somebody to help us out. He can’t be blamed for not
getting an exact time.”

Spock
nodded. “Not criticizing, just saying.”

“Bravo
Zero-Two, Control. We’re picking up some sort of transmission in your area,
over.”

Red
stepped out of the huddle, scanning the horizon in all directions as he
activated his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two. Can you get a fix on it?”

“Coming
from the north. It wasn’t there a minute ago, but it’s there now, over.”