The General and the Elephant Clock of Al-Jazari (9 page)

Brightman stepped out of the room to call General Painter and came back in with an okay to set up secure coms. “He said get you whatever you need, sir. I can show you the files on the guys taken in Tunisia. Everything’s on paper for security. He’s sending them over by secure courier.”

Gabriel came back into the room, loosened his tie. He unpacked their suits and hung everything in the closet, then unpacked the carry-on. Brightman excused himself, said he would get the gear they needed. Gabriel shook his head. “Just tell them at the desk what we need, have them send it up, and we’ll get secure sat phones tomorrow. If you go out now you’ll be stuck on the beltway until morning.”

When Brightman left the room, Gabriel stepped over, slung his arm around John’s shoulder and reached down for a bit of neck to kiss. “He said yes and wanted to know when you’d turned into a fucking pirate.”

“Why did you only get ten thousand?” John asked.

“I didn’t. I wrote it so my services are legal services and the fees will go back to the firm, not to me. We could use ten thousand, keep the lights on a few more months. I need to do more research. I actually think this sort of consulting is worth a lot more, and I may have given him a low-ball figure.”

“The files are all on paper for security, Gabriel. Remember when we used to put the most secure stuff on computers, so nobody in the office could look in the file cabinet?”

“Hasn’t been that long ago.”

“I wonder if things have changed that quickly in Tunisia?” John shook his head. “You remember when we were there last?”

“The Bedu, right? Somebody was fucking with the food aid over near the border?”

“Still Bedouin outside Tunis, as far as I know. I better do some catching up tonight.”

“We can put off our date night until we get back. No such thing as too much prep for an op in the middle of Arab Spring.”

“You sure?”

Gabriel nodded. “It’s kind of fun watching you. Reminds me of back in the day.”

John smiled at him. “Like back in the day, but better. Because you’re gonna be sleeping in my bed tonight, and you don’t have to slide quietly out the door when somebody comes to brief me.”

“I always hated that. I was afraid I was going to miss something critical that would get us both killed.”

“We’re better together,” John said.

General Painter didn’t send the files by secure courier. He brought them himself. John studied him. He’d put on a few pounds since he retired from the army, and his hair was a little thinner, but otherwise he looked the same as he always had. Just irritated. With his new eye for suits, John noted that General Painter was in a navy-blue crepe, three buttons, with black Rockports. Red-and-blue-striped tie with a little American flag tie tack. He handed the folders to John. “What the hell kind of shirt is that?”

John took them, shook hands. “Hello, David. My nephew picked it out.”

“So you want Brightman? You need an aide? Sure, sure, why not.” He looked at Brightman. “General Mitchel, he’s like Batman, you know? Always likes to have Robin hold his briefcase.”

The room was very still; then Gabriel stood up slowly. John looked at him, shook his head. He handed the files back to Painter. “I think we’re done.”

“Jesus, John! Too sensitive for Batman and Robin jokes? You just came out in big bright colors on the cover of
Out
magazine! You and the Horse-Lord, embracing over a chopper. Very sweet. Are we supposed to pretend we didn’t see it?”

“You’re supposed to pretend you have some manners, you dickhead.”

Painter threw back his head and laughed. John put his hands on his hips and sighed. He had forgotten the way Painter liked to throw a wasp’s nest when he walked into a room, just to see what would happen. Gabriel was watching Brightman. His face was bright pink, and he looked like he was choking on a piece of meat. John wondered how many gay general jokes he’d been forced to listen to in the last couple of days.

“Give me those.” John pulled the files out of Painter’s hands. “How did your boys get to Tunis if they were working in Algeria?”

“I don’t know.”

Brightman got very busy suddenly, setting up the scanner/fax machine that had been delivered.

“They had a couple days off, didn’t report back to work. Nobody’s sure exactly when they split.”

“You don’t think somebody went into Algeria and snatched them? Why would they?”

“I don’t know, John.” Painter sounded exasperated. And worried. “Ransom? To hold the operation hostage? But I absolutely don’t want the Algerians involved, not after what happened last time.”

“Agreed. So what are you doing?”

“Security for a drilling operation. Natural gas fields.”

“Do you know who has the boys?”

“The communication I got was from the Ministry of Justice. Ali Bahktar.”

Gabriel looked up suddenly, and John put the files down on the desk. “Ali Bahktar? Is it….”

“Yeah. Same kid, as far as I know. He’s the right age, anyway. Now he’s an assistant muckety-muck for Islamic affairs. If he’s going to be a thorn in anybody’s backside, John, I want it to be yours. He tried to cut your throat, right? And the Horse-Lord stopped him? I bet he hasn’t forgotten.”

“Neither have I. I think he was thirteen, fourteen. Something like that.” John thought about this, studied Painter. If John went to Tunisia, it could very well enrage this kid, no, this young man, to the point he would make a strategic error. It might get John killed, but Gabriel would have his back, like always. It was a good tactic, to turn an enemy’s anger back against him, like throwing sand in his eyes. Ali Bahktar wouldn’t be able to think clearly until the irritant was gone. And by that time, the two men he’d come to rescue would be gone with him, quiet as smoke. “Okay, good.”

Painter stood up, handed an envelope to Brightman. “Expenses,” he said. “Do whatever General Mitchel or the Horse-Lord asks you to do, okay? Don’t fuck this up, Brightman. I’m giving you a chance here. And keep receipts.”

“I’ll try, sir.” Brightman’s voice was wooden. He stood at attention until Painter had closed the door behind him.

“Okay,” John said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get to work. Brightman, first order of business, get us a pizza. We’re starving. We haven’t eaten all day. You two decide what you want on it. Get me a bottle of water.” He pulled out a yellow legal pad so he could take notes. Painter had given him three folders. The first was labeled Samuel Brightman. The other two were labeled Eli Green and Daniel Forsyth. “And when the pizza is on the way, Sam, you can explain to me what you know about how these two guys ended up in Tunisia.”

Brightman studied the ceiling as if he were looking for the hand of God in the woodwork. “Uh, sir, you know anything about Spartacus?”

“You mean the historical figure of Spartacus? Organized a slave rebellion?”

“No, I mean the show. Like,
Spartacus: Blood and Sand
? Andy Whitfield?” He turned to Gabriel. “It was the first season, and Daniel went nuts over Spartacus. He starts reading all these books on Roman history. Then Andy Whitfield gets cancer, and all the guys were like in mourning. All I know is I overheard him telling Eli if General Painter sent him to Algeria, he was going to find a way to get to Carthage, lay some flowers down for Andy Whitfield. It was the right thing to do, sir. He felt like a brother warrior. Carthage, it’s in Tunisia, right?”

G
ABRIEL
set up the computer, and when the pizza arrived, the three of them pulled chairs up to the table and watched the first episode of
Spartacus: Blood and Sand
. It was strangely bloody, even for ancient Rome, and John wondered why the director moved to slo-mo every time blood was spilled. It looked as though they were meant to watch with 3-D glasses.

Gabriel’s mouth dropped open at the love scene between the young Thracian and his pretty wife. Brightman was restless in his seat, but John spared his feelings, just handed over another slice of pizza with minimal eye contact. “Those are a couple of good-looking youngsters,” he offered. Gabriel reached under the table, squeezed his knee, hard. Finally Brightman had to excuse himself. John leaned closer to the screen and pointed. “Gabriel, there’s no way those two aren’t really screwing. Can you believe that? I didn’t think they could do that on TV. Jesus, that’s hot. I mean, look at his face.”

“I am looking at his face,” Gabriel said. He still had John’s knee in his hand. “We need to not watch any more ancient Roman porn with your new aide. I mean, that might be considered worse than watching porn with your parents, like workplace sexual harassment or something. He’s probably blowing a blood vessel right now.”

“Or blowing something. Agreed,” John said. “You can turn it off now. I think we’ve seen enough. So are we to understand these two knuckleheads went into Tunisia to visit the ancient city of Carthage, and they did something there that drew the attention of some authorities, who then took them into custody? And somehow Ali Bahktar got involved and decided to rattle a few American cages? I think our boys were confused about geography, or we don’t yet know the whole story. Why Carthage? Ancient Thrace was up around Macedonia.”

“Confused about sums it up, boss.”

Brightman was back, and from the spots of water on his shirt, John understood he had splashed cold water on his face.

“Okay, assignments. Brightman, work on reservations and transportation, leaving tomorrow if possible. Pack for yourself for a week. Find out if we can transport some weapons into the country, and if not, make arrangements for us to obtain some weapons from Painter’s people in Algeria. Better safe than sorry. Gabriel, can you do some research on Tunis and Carthage? I seem to remember it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Maybe we can find a way to get the UN or another organization involved. Do a political map of the ministries, if you can get up to date information, and see if you can find out the legal structure of the courts. I wonder if their law system is still primarily French Colonial? I will get us up to speed on Painter’s company and the boys, and the political climate in Tunis right now, since the riots last year. Also I’ll research young Mr. Bahktar for the last, what, fifteen years? What else?”

“John, it’s nearly eleven.”

John looked up from the file and glanced at his watch. “Oh, sorry, Gabriel, you’re right. I’m still in another time zone, I guess. Brightman, we’ll break for tonight. We’ll see you back here at 0800?”

Brightman stood up, and John noticed for the first time the fatigue on his face. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be here.”

John leaned forward over his computer screen, typed Government of Tunisia into the search engine. Gabriel leaned over his shoulder and looked at the screen. “Let me have this pretty lemon-yellow shirt. I’ll send it down to the cleaners with mine.” He reached around, loosened the knot in John’s tie. “Why don’t you take a break? We can play Spartacus.”

John laughed at him, but he scooted his chair back from the table and stood up. “Was there some crazy, power hungry Roman general in the mix? That’s who I want to be. You get to go into the arena, jump around with a sword. Wearing sweat and a loincloth.”

“Sure to be a crazy Roman,” Gabriel said. He finished untying John’s tie, slid the silk from under the collar. “Hey, they have a pool downstairs. Fancy a swim?”

“Oh, yeah. That sounds good.”

“I like this new style,” Gabriel said, running his hands over John’s new haircut. “You still look like you, just a little more… I don’t know.”

“Cooler,” John said, smiling up at him. “It’s all an illusion, my friend. I’m not even close to being cool. But if you like it, I like it.”

“The yellow makes your eyes look really silvery. I saw Painter giving you the once over.”

“He was just hoping I’d grown a fat ass sitting in a chair all day.”

“Batman doesn’t get a fat ass.” Gabriel pulled him close, reached down to nibble on the skin of his neck. “David Painter is such a dick.”

“What do you think of that story Brightman told us? About why the boys went to Tunisia?”

“Sounds like a bunch of Rangers. We need to bring them home, pronto, John. I didn’t like the sound of Ali Bahktar’s name, especially with Ministry of Justice behind it.”

John nodded. “Me, neither.” He gave Gabriel a squeeze around the waist. “Hey, did you take a good look at Green’s name? Eli Hannibal Green. I wonder if that’s our Carthage connection.”

“I bet his mom was a fan of the A-Team.”

“Either way, I suspect his name has ignited a passion for Carthage in young Mr. Green. Let’s hit the pool, get our laps in. And then we’ll see about playing Spartacus.”

T
HE
pool was empty, the rest of the hotel guests not being on New Mexico time. The water felt good on his back, and he stretched, let himself float on the surface. Gabriel nudged him. “Hey, old man. I don’t think you can catch me, not in the water.”

John shook his head, pulled himself against the edge of the pool, braced his feet against the wall. “You sure about that?”

Gabriel was doing the same thing, getting himself into launch position. “What are we racing for?”