Threatcon Delta (26 page)

“Only because it is a threat,” Kealey replied.

Durst cocked his head toward the reception desk. “When it comes to choosing one day, which side will she pick? When our armies withdrew from Africa and Eastern Europe, did the liberated peoples celebrate their freedom, or fall to civil war along old tribal lines? I tell you, when we sought the sword Excalibur to keep it from the British—who were also seeking it—we came across a prophesy on a church wall from the year 700 that read, ‘One land, one king.’ The desire—no, the
necessity—
for purity is older than the Nazi Party, Mr. Kealey. You may criticize my beliefs, but had the war turned out differently we would not see a world still in conflict. We would see civilization on the road to immortality.”

“At what price?”

“Less than you are paying now,” Durst said.

His milk arrived and he took it from the attendant without thanks. She left quickly without expecting any.

“We meet here in a half hour to go to the site,” Kealey said, eager to discontinue the conversation.

“I’ll be right here,” Durst assured him.

Kealey noticed Phair watching them. He didn’t know if the cleric could hear, but he probably had a sense of what had transpired. He said nothing, merely went back to his newspaper. Which said a great deal. Kealey couldn’t be bothered with his issues, either. He went to the far side of the lobby and peered into the pool area. Carla was gone and he called her room. She was not there. He left a message for her to meet them in the lobby at seven a.m., then went to his room and called Harper to confirm their travel plans. If Carla did not show up, he would leave without her. If Durst refused to go, he would tell him that he knew where the chest was and didn’t need him. He wasn’t fond of brinksmanship, but he could play the game if he had to.

“You sound stressed,” Harper observed. “Is everything all right?”

“Intramural squabbles between myself, an unrepentant Nazi, and a Catholic priest who is having a crisis of faith,” Kealey said.

“Not something that’s covered in our code of conduct,” Harper said.

“We’ll get over the speed bumps,” Kealey assured him.

“I’m sure,” Harper said. “If you need help, I can have someone in from Madrid—”

“I know,” Kealey said. “I’ll make this work. I’m determined.”

After confirming that the vehicle they requested would be there on time—a commercially rented, euphemistically named COW—a squat, bulky Cage On Wheels—Kealey hung up. They were not back on their previous terms of friendship, but the conversation had been warmer than any they’d had in the past six months. The realization that Harper was correct about how he assigned his agents, however, did not cover the profoundly disquieting decision to work with Hernandez for, apparently, perpetuity. Kealey couldn’t think about that now. He finished his coffee in the room and emptied his duffel bag of all nonessentials. In a few hours the only thing he needed would be inside it.

Then the real problems would begin.

L
ieutenant Adjo was awakened by a buzzing in his ear. He instinctively reached for the phone on his hip, found it wasn’t there, and realized a moment later there was a dragonfly in the bushes above him. He brushed it away and listened. It was the only sound. Even the wind was uncharacteristically still.

It was dark, and he had no idea how much time had passed. It had to be a few hours at least, since there had been enough time for his muscles to stiffen and his bruises to ripen and his body to ache as it had never hurt before.

In order to get off his back, which was locked tight, Adjo had to rock himself to his left side, which was slanted down, and roll into his belly. From that position he was able to get his hands and knees under him and push himself out from inside the bushes. There was less than a half meter between where he was lying and a rocky drop down the sloping cliff. He knew that because he could hear stones that he’d dislodged tumbling down the incline. He took pains to get to his knees and stay there until his head cleared and his body grew accustomed to moving again. He swung his arms gently to and fro and rolled his shoulders. He flexed his toes. Everything hurt.

He drank a little water—there was only another mouthful left—and then he checked the time on his cell phone. It was three in the morning. He barely remembered going to sleep.

His head was still foggy and his nasal passages and throat were raw. There was a cause and effect there, he suspected. The dry desert air had sapped his insides, leaving him dehydrated.

Though the darkness made for treacherous climbing, he didn’t want to waste any more time lying around. The darkness also assured him privacy. Besides, there was no reason he couldn’t make part of the journey on the tourist road. It was almost certainly reopened by now.

Before setting out, Adjo checked his phone. There was a text message from a private e-mail address, BHE777. That was Lieutenant General Samra. “Call any hour,” it said and gave his private cell phone number since that wasn’t programmed into the phone the MFO soldier had given him.

He connected to the number. “Sir, it’s Lieutenant Adjo.”

“I have information,” Samra said. The senior officer was alert and had obviously not been asleep. “The man you encountered at the monastery, Phut Eid. He’s twenty-two years old and an archaeology student at the King Abdul Aziz University in Jeddah.”

“Just a young student?”

“Nothing more. Perhaps the ID is stolen?”

Samra described the photo he had seen. It matched the image on the license.

“What’s driving us all a little mad here is that there have been no communications among any of the known insurrectionist groups,” Samra said. “We have spoken to the tour buses and local charter services, none of whom have any record or recollection of having brought large crates or drums to the mountain.”

“Money buys selective memory,” Adjo said.

“I know. But we had to try. Even so, they could have been smuggled in with shipments of supplies for the monastery. They are a very closed order and there are not many ways of getting information from the members.”

Adjo was still thinking about Phut Eid. “Why would an archaeology student be recruited for this project?”

“My guess is that he knew about the tunnel you climbed and helped them to expand it,” Samra said. “Incidentally, that passage was apparently cut millennia ago by volcanic activity. Perhaps that is what gave rise to the stories of it being the fiery Mountain of God.”

Adjo found the subject interesting, but for another time. He did not want to waste battery power on it. “Sir, I don’t see as how there’s any option but for me to try and get back into the monastery.”

“Out of the question,” Samra said. “They will be watching for you now. So will the MFO. They have been authorized to stay an extra day because of those two explosions. Someone reported to them that a terrorist had been in the compound.”

“Surely the minister can tell them the truth—”

“He does not want to get involved at this point, and he is reluctant to have the military move in until we know more about what is happening on the ground. We don’t know if an incursion may trigger the men in the mountain to use the napalm. No, what I want you to do is infiltrate the mob and see what you can learn about where they are going or what this supposed prophet is going to do.”

“Has there been nothing on the Internet?”

“Not that we have been able to find,” Samra replied. “We believe the organizers and pilgrims are communicating strictly by phone—one to another to another. That’s why you may be able to find something out by moving among them.”

“Yes, sir,” Adjo said.

It all made sense, though he didn’t like the fact that the men in the monastery had complete control of this situation. Reactive tactics were only good in martial arts, not in crowd control. Still, though he was on the front lines of this struggle, Adjo had access to only part of the information flow.

“I am expecting a report from the American team as to their next move,” Samra went on. “You will need to meet them.”

“Do we know when?”

“Tomorrow night, I am told. They are in Morocco. One of them speaks several Arabic tongues.”

“Very good,” Adjo said. “If my phone dies or for some reason we don’t communicate, I’ll watch for them after sundown at the entrance to the monastery. Have one of them say something I will recognize—perhaps ‘Good evening, Adjo.’ ”

“I’ll let them know.”

“What are they doing in Morocco?”

“They are looking for something to stop the prophet,” Samra replied. “I should like to know what they are planning. This is monstrous, this invasion. All these people, foreigners for and against us. It must be stopped. We
must
control the situation.”

Secretive Americans, radical students, gun-toting monks—it was all beyond Adjo’s area of expertise. Obviously, Lieutenant General Samra was also at a loss. That made Adjo even more convinced that perhaps his superior was correct about collecting as much information as possible before doing anything more.

Adjo turned off the phone and stood. He must be a sight, he knew, with his frayed robe and bloodied limbs. But the chances were very good that if anyone saw him, they would not imagine him to be what he was.

Still stiff from neck to ankles—kicking along the tunnel floor had required muscles he had never known he had, let alone overtaxed—Adjo made his cautious way down the mountain. He knew where the tourist road was and wanted to get on it while it was still dark. If anyone was coming up, he’d see the vehicle headlights.

He picked his way across the rocks, feeling along in the darkness. Surprisingly, he did not hear the sounds of search or pursuit. The wind was up slightly, and it concealed movement from much farther than a few meters. Still, he had expected to see at least probing flashlights upon the hills or headlights. Perhaps his attackers had other tasks and decided he was not worth the chase.

He did not hurry nor, apparently, did he need to; it was still two hours until dawn and he had less than three hundred meters to go to the foothills. From there, it was roughly a half kilometer to where the pilgrims had gathered.

The sun rose as Adjo reached the bottom of the mountain, revealing cars and trucks, camels and horses, all spotted among a rainbow sea of robes and different-colored tents—from the lush green of the Kindah to the tan of the Azd. The likes of such a diverse gathering had probably not been seen since the days of the caravansaries a century and more before.

Adjo made his way across the gently sloping terrain below the monastery, happily trading sharp-edged rocks for hard, parched earth. As he neared the camp, he became aware of great activity. It was more than just the waking of pilgrims, though there was that, too. There was also excitement.

“Good morning to you,” he said to a man who was crouched on the hood of a dusty jeep, looking at a cell phone. The middle-aged fellow was dressed in jeans and an open button-down shirt and was wearing a
kaffiyeh.
A cell tower outside the monastery, concealed in a tree, allowed tourists all the electronic amenities of civilization out here. “What is going on?”

“We have been promised a message from the prophet,” the slender-faced man said enthusiastically.

“On that?” Adjo indicated the phone.

He nodded. “There was a text message announcing that he will appear to us on the mountain,” he said.

So Lieutenant General Samra was right about how the prophet was communicating.

“I did not receive this news,” Adjo said.

“Why not?” the young man asked suspiciously.

“The buses were not running, and I have walked a long distance, as you can tell,” Adjo said. “My cell phone is out of power.”

“Let me see your phone,” the man said. “If my adaptor fits, you can use my cigarette lighter to charge it.”

Adjo realized his mistake, then. His phone was military issue, branded as such with three green stars inside a crescent moon.

“Maybe later, my friend,” Adjo replied. “I am too excited now. What did the message say?”

“It said that something great is about to transpire, and that those of us who are able should take videos of the event,” the man said. “We are to send it to everyone we know, everyone we care about.”

“To bring them here or to prepare for the prophet to go to them?” Adjo asked.

“I do not know,” said the man. “Why do you ask so many questions when you can just wait and see?”

“I’ve come a long way,” Adjo said with a smile. “I’m so curious!”

“I understand,” the man said. He had turned from the mountain to look Adjo over. “You can use a wash. Would you like some water?”

“I would like that very much,” Adjo admitted. “By the way, my name is Bassam Adjo. I am from Cairo.”

“I am Nayef Chalthoum of El Arish,” the man said, as he went around to the passenger’s seat and handed Adjo bottled water and a roll of paper towels. Adjo accepted them with a gracious bow.

There was no room to sit—a man had pitched a tent literally at the rear fender, and a small bus and a battered all-terrain vehicle flanked either side of the jeep—so Adjo remained standing as he cleaned his knees and then his elbows. “Do you know anything else about the event we are to witness?” Adjo asked, wincing from the sting of the warm water.

The man fussed over his phone for a moment and handed it to Adjo. “Now you will know all that I know,” Nayef said.

Adjo set the bottle down and looked at the text message. It was simply from Caveoftheholyprophet at a local Web-mail service. It read:

Adjo forwarded the message to his own cell phone, then returned this unit to his host. He finished washing, refilled his water pouch, thanked Nayef for his hospitality, then moved away from the jeep. When he was lost in the crowd, he forwarded the message from his phone to Lieutenant General Samra with a short explanation. From the eagerness of the crowd and the way it seemed to be growing—the horizon was dotted with pilgrims—he sensed that he would know more before Samra did.