The Forbidden Tomb (36 page)

Keeping track of Dade meant keeping track of Kamal.

And vice versa.

Better still, the presence of Kamal guaranteed the cooperation of the underbelly of the city. If people refused to answer Dade’s questions, Kamal was there to talk some sense into them. And if that didn’t work, he could always beat it out of them.

* * *

As Hassan stared at the sea, he sensed that Awad was behind him. ‘Are they gone?’

Awad nodded. ‘Gaz took Simon in his car. The others left by boat.’

‘How many?’

‘Four, including the two that you met. They were covered by a scruffy man dressed as a traveler and a Latino with a computer. They heard and saw everything.’

‘Including you?’

‘Yes.’

Hassan smiled. ‘So they know what they’re doing. That’s good to hear. Hopefully we’ll get some answers without losing additional men.’

‘Sir?’

Based on Kamal’s description of the slaughter in the tunnels, Hassan had suspected the ancient warriors. ‘They have met the Muharib, just as I feared.’

‘In Alexandria? I thought the Muharib were desert dwellers. Why would they come to the city?’

Hassan shrugged. ‘That’s what we need to find out.’

The battered Jeep bounced across the sand, jostling the driver and his passenger as they sped toward the remote hut.

Under normal circumstances, the interrogation of a prisoner would have been conducted slowly and methodically. It would have lasted for days, perhaps even weeks, until they were certain that their subject had given up every last detail.

A moment of pain can weaken anyone’s spirit.

But prolonged suffering will shatter even the most hardened of wills.

Unfortunately, things had not gone as expected in Alexandria. At least two of the Americans had escaped the destruction of the cisterns. To make matters worse, the duo had witnessed the abduction of their colleague and had chased the bombers.

The men could no longer afford to let the interrogation drag out.

They needed answers, and they needed them now.

Their intensity grew with each passing mile.

* * *

As the camels plodded through the desert, Jasmine’s frustration continued to mount. Seated behind Izri atop the lead animal, she wanted to thrust her heels together and spur the beasts to sprint for all they were worth, but she resisted the urge. She knew this was the pace of life in the Sahara. Here, slow and steady wins the race. Perhaps nowhere else on earth was the proverb more accurate.

Despite her impatience, Jasmine had to acknowledge that their sluggish pace might actually be for the best. She considered the very real possibility that it was safer to keep moving than to stop. Presumably, the ideal places for camps and settlements were known throughout the desert, giving her captors a good place to start looking once they realized that she was missing. While she was appreciative of the Berbers’ rescue efforts, she wondered if they were inadvertently leading her back into the hands of the enemy.

Jasmine leaned forward and spoke to Izri. ‘Please tell me about your village.’

Izri smiled at her improving familiarity with his language and laughed at her description of their community. ‘It is too much to say that we are a village. We are simply a collection of travelers. We move where we must, when we must, as we have done for generations.’

‘But is there a place you call home?’ Jasmine asked.

Izri spread his arms wide. ‘The whole of the Sahara is our place.’ He glanced over his shoulder at Jasmine. ‘
This
is our home.’

* * *

As the Jeep pulled up to the rear of the hut, the men did not notice the disturbed sand near the base of the building. Even if they had, they would have assumed it had been caused by the transport team there earlier. The possibility of their captive’s escape would never have crossed their mind. It wasn’t until they reached the front of the building that they knew something was wrong.

On most days, the desert breeze quickly erases any and all trails through the sand. Footprints and tire tracks alike are routinely swept away by the gusting winds, leaving nothing but a vast, blank canvas. Without these signs, it is nearly impossible to track someone’s movement through the barren terrain.

Unfortunately for Jasmine, the air that day was unusually still.

Standing at the front door, the men stared in surprised horror at the line of smooth indentations that led off into the distance. They could plainly see that these were not the prints of their comrades’ boots, nor were there multiple sets of tracks. This was the trail of a single hiker – one who had been forced to fashion her own footwear.

They rushed inside, hoping against all reason that they were mistaken, that the captive was still secured to the floor in the far room. Instead, their worst fears were realized.

The woman was gone.

Only the shackles remained.

Normally they were the ones who caused panic in their victims, not the other way around. Now it was their turn to face fear. Even though they had yet to take possession of the American, they knew they would be held responsible for her disappearance.

The punishment would be swift and severe.

Their superiors would not tolerate incompetence.

They had to retrieve her before anyone knew she was missing.

* * *

As the sun vanished beneath the horizon, Jasmine still could not see the camp, but she had faith that her rescuers knew their way.

‘Is it much farther?’ she asked.

Izri shook his head. ‘Perhaps another hour. Two at most.’

Jasmine noticed that none of the men wore watches or carried timepieces of any kind. She understood that the position of the sun could be used to track the hours during the day, but she wondered how the nomads kept time in the darkness. Ultimately, she let the concern pass. It didn’t matter how long it took to reach their destination, only that they got there. Instead, she asked another question that had been puzzling her.

‘How do you know English?’

Izri smiled. ‘My grandfather teach it to my father. My father teach it to me. Someday, I teach it to my son.’

‘You have children?’

‘Yes. I have—’

His answer was cut short by the shouts of the man bringing up the rear.

Turning to see what had drawn his interest, Jasmine saw him pointing toward a small cloud of dust in the distance. Looking closer, she saw that it wasn’t a natural phenomenon, it was a vehicle: a World War II-era Jeep. She was amazed that such a relic was still operational, especially in the harsh environment of the desert.

As the other two men dismounted to await the newcomers, Jasmine leaned close and whispered to Izri, ‘Do you know who it is?’

Izri smiled. ‘No, but it is not uncommon to meet other travelers. Paths cross all the time. The desert may be vast, but the people who live here are much closer than you may think. There is no need for concern. The Sahara is a friendly place.’

To reinforce his point, Izri turned his camel around and maneuvered it so that they would be the first to greet the new arrivals. He even raised his hand and offered a friendly wave. To his surprise, the Jeep showed no signs of slowing.

By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late.

The passenger in the Jeep rose from his seat and swung mightily toward his target. In a flash, the cold steel of his blade sliced through the camel’s neck, cleanly severing its head and killing it instantly. The one-ton animal dropped to the ground, pinning both Izri’s and Jasmine’s legs under its body as it crashed to the sand.

Izri’s companions reached for the archaic rifles that they had tucked in their saddles, but the proximity of the Jeep had startled their camels. It was impossible to retrieve their weapons from the backs of the flailing beasts that were trying to run away. The swordsmen slashed at the men mercilessly, spilling their guts and cleaving muscle from bone. Though Izri’s friends survived the initial attack, they wouldn’t last long.

The driver stopped the Jeep and jumped out with his partner close behind. With a quick thrust, the swordsmen drove their weapons deep into the chests of their victims. Their actions were as coordinated as they were brutal, as if there were some sort of hideous choreography in play. Spines snapped and lungs deflated as the blades were pushed through the defenseless prey, leaving only heaps of lifeless flesh.

Jasmine stared in horror, wondering if she was next.

Instead, the men turned their attention to Izri.

As the assassins closed in, Jasmine strained against the carcass. The sand had prevented her leg from being shattered by the animal’s bulk, but it wasn’t loose enough to allow her to pull free. Try as she might to wiggle out, she was trapped under the fallen camel. No matter how far she stretched, Izri’s rifle lay just beyond her reach.

Izri stared at the men hovering over him. He raised his arms in defense and begged for mercy, the desperation in his voice clearly understood in any language. He knew they had won. He only wished that his life be spared.

In response, the larger of the men grabbed Izri’s hair and yanked his head backwards. With a simple swipe of his blade, the man split Izri’s throat in two. Releasing his grasp, he screamed in triumph as the life literally drained from the nomad’s face.

Jasmine felt her stomach heave as she turned her head, unwilling to watch the horror of his death. A moment later, she felt the quick pinch of a needle piercing her shoulder, followed by a warm sensation as her vision grew hazy and her mind began to swirl.

The last thing she saw was Izri’s lifeless eyes staring up at the heavens.

After that, there was only darkness.

Despite the powerful engines on the speedboat, Cobb and Sarah were soundly beaten back to the yacht. This had more to do with McNutt’s driving than Cobb’s. Having noticed Garcia’s dislike of the sea, McNutt had pushed the low-horsepower motor of the inflatable raft to its absolute limit while hitting every swell that he could possibly find.

Eventually, two things happened, neither of which was unexpected.

One, Garcia puked all over the raft; and two, by the time the Zodiac had reached its destination, the outboard motor was smoking more than Cheech & Chong.

Cobb and Sarah noted both upon their return.

As they made their way toward the galley to ask what had happened, they heard not only McNutt and Garcia, but a third voice as well. It was an accent that they hadn’t expected, but one that they recognized immediately.

McNutt was the first to see them coming. ‘Look who we found.’

Papineau turned to face them. ‘I hear you’ve been busy.’

It was clear that he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. His mind was occupied with the business at hand, and he wanted to know what they had been doing in his absence. But there was something about his aloofness that rubbed Sarah the wrong way. He had been gone for forty-eight hours – doing God knows what while they were risking their lives for one of their teammates – and he didn’t even have the decency to say hello.

‘It’s great to see you, too,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Did you bring us any souvenirs from the Orient? I hear it’s lovely there this time of year.’

Papineau stared at her but said nothing. He had more than enough reasons to find Jasmine and bring her back safely, but he was adding another one to the list. Sarah had been a firecracker from the very beginning, but it seemed the dislike that Cobb and McNutt felt for him was rubbing off on her. Selfishly, he needed Jasmine to balance the sense of civility—or least provide an alternate target for Sarah’s snide remarks.

Cobb smiled at the exchange. ‘Yes, we had a meeting with a resource that might be able to help us out. How much did they tell you?’

‘Only the basics,’ McNutt assured him. ‘We mentioned Hassan and the citadel, but nothing else. We were waiting for you to explain the rest.’

Papineau didn’t give him the chance. ‘You call that man a
resource
? What were you thinking? Aziz Zawarhi Hassan is not a resource – he’s a
criminal
!’

Cobb grimaced. ‘I guess you’ve heard of him—’

‘Of course I’ve heard of him! Did you really think I would bring you to a city without knowing whom and what to avoid? We all have our own ways of prepping a mission. You have your rekkys, and I have the INTERPOL watch-list. Don’t you get it? We’re trying to stay clear of any unnecessary encounters with the police, yet you go off and do business with a well-known crime lord. Explain it to me, Jack, because it sounds like you’ve lost your mind.’

Cobb couldn’t remember seeing Papineau so animated. He wondered if the irritability was merely a symptom of jet lag, or if something had happened during his trip. Either way, he was fairly confident that Papineau wouldn’t give him a straight answer, so he avoided the topic completely and opted to charge ahead.

‘Are you finished?’ Cobb asked calmly.

Papineau fumed at being talked down to; he’d had enough of that with Copeland in California, but instead of lashing out he bit his lip in silence.

‘Yes,’ Cobb admitted, ‘I reached out to Hassan. And yes, he is a criminal. But no, I haven’t lost my mind – I used it. The men we’re looking for aren’t angels. They don’t spend their days thinking up ways to make the world a better place. They’re killers, just like Hassan. If we have any chance of getting close to them, we needed access to that world. Hassan gets us in. And Simon Dade helps us navigate through it.’

Papineau’s eyes bulged in frustration. ‘Dade? Why are we messing around with him? Hasn’t he caused us enough trouble already?’

Sarah couldn’t help herself. She felt obligated to defend Dade – or at the very least, her decision to recommend him. ‘Without Simon, we’d have never made the connection with Hassan. He might have gotten us into this mess, but he’s doing what he can to get us out.’

Papineau shook his head in frustration. ‘The mess in the tunnel had nothing to do with Hassan. It had everything to do with
us
.’