Chapter 31

 

 

DAY 13

 

11:12 a.m.

Rabat, Morocco

 

“You look like you could use this.” Nash held out a chilled, water bottle to Calla.

Thankful for her second chance at life, however it came, she beamed at him with a new energy. “Thanks, Nash.”

He cast her a heartfelt smile. “No problem.”

The trio headed down to the marketplace, better known locally as the Souk, with the heat of the African sun beating on the back of their necks. The metropolitan city of Rabat, at the mouth of the Bou Regreg River, had a clear-cut European presence. Like Casablanca to the south Rabat boasted much French influence as they proceeded down the tree-lined Mohammed V Avenue to the center of the city and traversed into the renowned marketplace.

Jack ran his hands through a number of hanging, silk veils, teasing an eager, toothless merchant who tried to barter with him. “Sorry, sir. I have no ladies to entertain with this garment and this one’s taken.”

With a silk veil, donned in local style, shielding her head, Calla turned to Nash and they curved into convulsions of hysterics as they watched Jack try to avoid a second merchant who’d shoved a handful of jeweled bracelets toward him.

Nash pulled Jack away from the fervent sellers. “Jack, it will take more than a veil to get the girl.”

“You should know.”

Shaking with laughter Nash pulled him to the sidewalk. “All right, we’ll talk about that later. I double checked with my intelligence contacts. Aran Masud should be at the café at the end of the market. According to the CIA he’s legit.”

They forged ahead through the narrow alleys of the bustling market, admiring the spread of exotic fruits and vegetables. Calla took a swig of her water bottle and breathed in the spicy scents of the marketplace. She slung an arm through Jack’s. “The most famous resources ever to hit the African continent were those that belonged to King Solomon.”

“King Solomon?” Jack asked. “He wasn’t African, nor did he live on the continent.”

“Finally, Jack. You did pay attention at some of my curator talks.”

“You give great talks and, believe me, it’s great to hear about history when the view is worth watching.”

She nudged him in the arm with a smirk. “Pay attention, computer man. You’re right about Solomon. The man didn’t live here but his treasures were here. One legend says that the Queen of Sheba, a queen consort whose reign stretched from Ethiopia to Yemen, came with hard questions for King Solomon. She wanted to test him and lugged with her a hoard of camels, spices, gold and precious stones. All for her new man.”

“Stones?” Jack said.

“Yes, stones. You know, like rubies, emeralds and diamonds. She came, questioned Solomon and liked his responses. For some reason Solomon gave her all she desired and to quote a famous historian, ‘some of his royal bounty.’”

Nash stepped ahead of them. “Solomon was the wealthiest man ever to walk the Earth. He’s also remembered as the wisest but wisdom wasn’t his only resource. His gold reserves alone would be worth nearly a trillion US dollars in today’s currency.” He threw a teasing fist into Jack’s shoulder. “Now that’s bounty for booty.”

“She must’ve been a knockout,” Jack said.

They turned the corner into a section of the Souk, congested with merchants trading food, vintage clothes and local souvenirs at bargain prices.

“Sheba returned to the continent with much bounty to her own country,” Calla said.

Jack wasn’t convinced. “But where is this bounty? Surely we’re not trailing through Allan Quatermain’s footsteps?”

Nash grasped Jack’s neck in a tease. “Friend, open your mind to the possibilities of history, far beyond a novel character from the eighteen hundreds.”

Calla shook her veiled head and chuckled. She locked arms with each of the heat-distressed men. As the colorful, chiffon veil shielded her from the sweltering sun, she exchanged looks with a twinkle of mischief in her eye. “I think Queen Sheba was the keeper of the third stone. Hopefully Aran Masud can take us to the exact spot she hid it.”

“I think I like this queen,” Jack said.

 

They stopped in front of a café in the French-style quarter along a narrow pedestrian street.

“We’re on time,” Jack said. “Masud will meet us out here.”

They waited outside, gazing over the estuary to Salé from the chilled open-air café, spread over several terraces in the Andalusian Gardens. A local man in his fifties, dressed in a djellaba, a flowing, hooded garment with full sleeves, approached them. “Jack Kleve?”

Jack stepped forward. “Yeah.”

Jack had called in a favor with ISTF intelligence services and confirmed Masud’s credentials together with Nash. It had taken a while to find the right contact but Masud had been assigned to assist them with anything they required in Rabat.

“So Aran,” Jack said. “You come highly recommended. Your name surfaced during a search for a knowledgeable guide on the African continent.”

“I’m flattered. I’ve been involved in British intelligence on and off since 1972.”

“What can you tell us about Queen Sheba’s treasures? Have you ever found any of them?” Jack joked.

Masud shook his head clearly not amused by Jack’s humor. “I’ve been on many excursions in search of Sheba’s treasure, once in the 1970s and once in 1985. Those who have sought it have also abandoned their quests mid-way.”

The trio watched Masud curiously as his speech breathed with eloquence, contradicted by his chewing-tobacco stained teeth. How much he knew was a mystery to all of them.

Nash spoke in fluent Arabic. “Mr. Masud, what’s your price for a walk down Sheba’s trail? I’m not sure how much you know about us but we’re are conducting an archeological study.”

Masud grinned, a wide-tooth smile, now revealing a set of scattered, gold teeth. “For you, the price will be £5000. We leave now. We’ve a long journey ahead on this dark continent.”

“Okay,” Nash said.

“Cash first. Mr.—”

Nash detested carrying much cash with him but he had anticipated this sort of thing. He reached in his backpack pulling out an envelope of Sterling notes. “Fifty percent now and fifty percent upon our safe return.”

Masud took the money and nodded in agreement. He bowed his head courteously. “This way. We need to collect some gear and discuss the details.”

They stepped into the busy café.

 

 

Slate watched from across the street as the three Londoners, led by a local guide, made their way into the popular café. Three plainly dressed men stood with him. “We need to blend in,” had been Slate’s instructions.

Slate spat out his gum on the dusty ground. He cursed. Cress was still alive. Slate had been positive the girl hadn’t survived that Shard fall. He’d left the scene at London Bridge armed with that knowledge. He’d scuttled to the bottom of the building to grab the manuscript from her shattered body only to find her gone along with her car. He was now on the hunt for Cress. A third time.

“Hey,” he yelled at his goons. “Stay out of sight. They’re on the move.”

Slate and his trailers remained concealed. He drew out a retractable mini telescope with an integrated listening device. The image was hazy, requiring a couple of adjustments. When it finally functioned properly he peered through the eye hole.

Through the minuscule opening he caught sight of a local man leading his targets to a table. Within minutes a bearded gentleman joined them. Probably a local historian or professor. Slate tuned the listening device and clear voices sounded even though he had to mentally tune out the hubbub of the boisterous café.

 

 

Calla studied the two local men as they exchanged a few words in Arabic. Masud turned to his clients. “You must understand, I’ve asked my father who has done more excavations than I have. He’ll be able to tell you more. Many have sought Queen Sheba’s treasure and not found it.”

The older man glanced at each of the visitors and spoke in his mother tongue. “What makes you think you will?”

“We don’t seek a treasure, just information,” replied Nash in Arabic.

“Then you had better be prepared,” said the man.

A bothersome grin spread on Masud’s face. “We leave in an hour.”

Masud left the table followed by his swaggering father. The trio huddled to discuss matters privately as a waiter offered them mint tea, accompanied by minuscule almond biscuits delivered on silver trays.

“Do you trust them?” Jack asked.

“We have no choice,” Nash said.

Calla lowered her voice. “We’ll just have to take a chance and hope we get to that lost treasure, or where it was held. I believe someone in King Solomon’s circle was the original keeper of this third stone?”

“Why Solomon?” asked Jack.

Calla giggled with her next thought. “Solomon started great, so to speak. A man full of wisdom and wealth but he didn’t end great. I think he gave the carbonado to the Queen of Sheba as ‘bounty.’ It must have been stashed among his vast resources.”

“But it’s millenniums later. Why would these resources be lying around somewhere? Are we seriously looking for a gold mine here?” asked Jack.

“The Deveron alludes to a crafty keeper of the third carbonado, one of great resources. Solomon is the only man ever to have owned resources anywhere near that in history. This must have happened at the time when Solomon had seven hundred concubines and three hundred wives. The stone must be here in Africa,” she added.

“Well, it better be because, according to this translation, the stones need to be united within eight days of the first one being found,” added Jack. “We don’t have much time to jump to another continent. I like this man Solomon” He whistled. “Whoa! I need his skills. A thousand women? He would need three years to spend a single day with each.”

“Hence the thousand and one nights,” Nash said.

The comment drew laughter until Calla’s face darkened with worry. “Jack, Nash. I’ll owe you big time when all of this is over.”

Jack leaned in, empathy growing in his face. “Calla, don’t even think about it.”

She breathed out a grateful smile.

Nash scanned the café, his gaze narrowing into a grimace. “I personally wanna keep an eye on this Aran guy.”

“According to ISTF files he’s legit and has been very instrumental in this part of the world for us,” said Jack.

“Exactly,” Nash said. “According to ISTF.”

 

They left within the hour, boarding a chartered flight to Pakuba Airstrip in North-Western Uganda. Masud hadn’t really told them much about the destination except that they would land in the fields where the animals roam free and waterfalls descend over lofty cliffs. Whatever that means.

Calla peered out the window of the Gulfstream G650 jet. Gazing outside gave her the feeling of gliding, welcoming the enthralling descent toward the valley. They hovered over the northern part of Uganda, surveying diverse vegetation, everything from forests to scattered woodlands disappearing into the savannah grasslands.

She glanced down only to catch her breath as she took in the sight beneath them of the roaring Murchison Falls. The thunderous falls on the Nile River spanned between jagged cliffs, forcing their way through a seven-meter gap and dropped a spectacular forty-meters into the placid river below.

The plane landed at a bare and dusty airstrip. Moments later a local driver met them and guided them to a white safari van. When Masud greeted the driver he introduced him as Makumbe. Dark as midnight Makumbe put to mind the thought of a bolt of lightning. His attentive brown eyes were like two disks of wood as they turned to view the curious travelers. Glancing down at them he stood close to the height of an attentive ostrich.

“Makumbe will take us to Paraa Lodge where we can drop off our things and use it as a base. He’ll also lead our trek to the trail by the falls, where I’m sure you’ll find what you seek. We leave in thirty minutes,” Masud said.

Nash shook the driver’s hand. “I hear the animals in these parts are unforgiving.”

“Only if you interfere with them,” Makumbe answered as he displayed a large set of porcelain teeth.

He packed them into the safari van and settled into the driver’s seat. The four-wheel drive steered off the lodge promptly at 6:00 p.m. local time. Forty-five minutes later they tore around a sharp corner, skidding to a stop at the top of the turbulent waterfalls. They stepped out of the van, admiring the view of the boisterous, foaming waters. Masud gathered the group and spoke with an authority unsuited to his minuscule height. “We’ll hike from here. Are we ready?”

Masud and Makumbe directed the pack of hikers on the dirt path. How they would traverse the treacherous rocks and tumultuous waters was anyone’s guess. Calla’s other concern was the unpredictable beasts of Africa that roamed the area. She’d read that perilous cheetahs roved free and uninhibited, not to mention the water buffaloes that charged opponents, weighing in at 1200 kilograms each.

Meters from the summit of the falls Calla addressed the déjà vu impression that played on her mind. She recognized the view but wasn’t entirely sure why.

She’d seen the falls before. Her dream from Paris hung vividly in her mind as she replayed the picture of the hooded man. Was this the path he’d taken? Could that dream have been a sign that she was on the right track?

Nash trekked with sure-footed steps ahead of the group, walking alongside Makumbe. “We’re almost there,” Makumbe said. “Just a few more meters.”

A crimson sunset had formed over the falls and, from their height, they gawked at the wide valley from which they’d come.

 

 

“Halt!” Makumbe roared.

A deafening shot exploded in the trees behind them, turning their attention toward screeching, black-headed, Gonolek birds that shot out of the Ensali trees and littered the evening sky.

Nash withdrew his pistol. “Get down!” he ordered the company around him.

One by one they dove face down on the cleft path. Five shots fired above them, followed by a tear gas can, landing inches from Jack’s feet. He reached for the irritant and cast it several meters from the group.

Calla covered her eyes as the oozing can spread a cloud of mist around them, instigating inflammation in their eyes, noses and mouths. Nash kept a firm grasp on his 45-caliber semi-automatic pistol. Glancing upward he caught a glimpse of an oncoming ambush through the smog.

Four camouflaged men enclosed them armed with automatic firearms and meshes of fibers, woven in grid-like structures that could only have been fishing nets. As one of the hoodlums took a menacing step forward he was caught off guard by Nash’s aim. With a savage heave the man drove at him with the butt of an army shotgun.

 Calculating a defensive strike Nash surged forward and slammed the man’s arms, stalling his vertical attack and sending him staggering backward as the goon dropped his gun. Nash kicked it to the side and struck him in the chest with a tight-gripped knuckle fist that drove him to the floor unconscious. A second attacker swung at Calla with a heavy net, lunging violently behind her. Despising his heated breath on the back of her neck she twisted round and crashed a fist into his lungs that jarred her hand tight. She froze for several seconds as the blood returned before contending with teargas smoke, eye irritation and the menaces of the surrounding onslaught.

The man’s legs buckled under him and he dropped the net gasping for air. Assured looks from Jack and Nash gave her confidence. To restrain him further she gripped his bulky arm and with fisted knuckles, pressured hard above his elbow joint. The pain immobilized him and he dropped to his knees in surrender. The tread of approaching footsteps signaled the appearance of the chieftain. Calla glimpsed upward and caught a face through the mist. Brown eyes, the color of acorns and a poisonous look on his face that made her think of a deadly eel, it was the thug who’d charged at her on the train, sent her plummeting off the Shard, and knocked her to the pavement in Berlin.

He sported a clean-shaven head. The hoodlum was exquisitely put together, with a musky scent that swooned women and a strong jaw, completely contradicting the peril that stemmed from him. Her eyes narrowed into his stare as Slate emerged through fogged air, armed with an army pistol and, queerly, a street knife. He quickened his pace and charged his knife at Jack, who heaved backward gripping Slate’s wrist into an arm wrestle.

Overpowered by the six-foot-two hulk Jack rocketed to the ground with a solid kick from Slate’s army boot and his head slammed on to a mud-spattered tree stump that opened a fingernail-deep gush on his forehead. Nash’s jaw tightened. He lengthened his stride to Jack’s aid, eying Slate carefully, who then plunged forward slicing air with his blade.

Nash stretched a violent arm for the attacker’s knife hand, his wrist scuffing the knife’s sharp edge as he shelled a dynamic jolt into Slate’s right knee. He stood over Slate’s recoiling frame for all of two seconds.

Slate crooked backward, grabbing his kneecap with his free hand. He backed away from Nash until the rough stones of a giant boulder scuffed his back. Slate tightened his grip on his firearm and settled it in the direction of Calla’s forehead. He moved forward.

Calla’s predicament caused Nash to stop in his tracks as a spurt of anger spiraled in his glare and focused on Slate’s accurately aimed handgun. The tip of the frigid gun barrel chilled Calla’s crown and a tense shiver thrilled through her senses as Slate lurched closer, his face inching toward hers. In one precipitate effort he slit a lock of hair that had cascaded to her face and wrapped it round the blade, initiating a riled look from Nash, who stole a step in his direction.

“Not so fast, Marine,” Slate said, angling the gun perpendicularly against Calla’s flesh without a single glimpse at Nash.

Her eyes fell to the bag around her upper body as she evaded Slate’s piercing stare.

“Had enough, Cress? We should stop these body wrestles that I may begin to enjoy.”

“Get away from me!” she said.

“Not yet. Maybe you don’t want me to. Otherwise, why keep me pursuing you. This may turn out to be more than a man hunt.”

Calla lifted her chin. “You’ve been warned.”

Slate let out a shady smirk and turned to Masud. “Get outta here.”

Masud bowed his head and hurtled down the dirt path pursued by a frightened Makumbe. With the gun still menacing her crown Calla shot a glance at her companions. The last thing Calla saw of Masud was the unnerving smile on his perspiring face. As the commotion came to a stilled pause the teargas mist faded. Faces and forms became distinctly visible.

Nash stood defenseless a few meters from Calla, with a tightened fist to his side. Inches from him Jack stooped on the ground, resting a hand on his bruised chest as blood from the head wound seeped to his shirt.

Calla glimpsed round her, an inner surge of intolerance growing to explosive proportions. The two carbonados had tumbled out of her waist pack. Slate’s gaze followed her anxious gape as his knife inched to her throat. “Cress. It would have been lovely.” He dug the gun deeper into her skin. “Hand over the manuscript and this time, make sure you place it in my hands.”

She gaped at him with eyes that made her fury rise theatrically.

Her reply was calm and confident. “No.”

The gun mined a little deeper. “Sure? Now, let’s try again. Start with the stones.”

“No.”

 

 

 

7:29 p.m.

Chartered Flight to Pakuba Airport

Northern, Uganda

 

The bubbly flight attendant returned with a can of Coke and handed it to Eichel. “Would you like anything else, sir?”

Eichel took the fizzy drink and gulped it down. It gave him the sugar high he craved. They would be landing at Pakuba airstrip in the next thirty minutes.

The plane cruised over the expanse of the Sub-Saharan African skies. Eichel couldn’t stop the sense of anticipation he felt. The stories from his great grandmother who’d lived to a hundred and eight occupied his mind. She had worked as a nurse in Tanzania at the time of the German occupation, early in the twentieth century. He was only saddened by the fact that he couldn’t visit one of the oldest known inhabited areas on Earth and experience her adventures. His trip was to the neighboring land-locked country where he hoped to find Jack Kleve, having left all the necessary meeting arrangements to Peter.

Eichel blinked as fading sun rays blinded his eyes. He stepped onto African soil for the first time, captivated by the green expanse and vivid colors of the country Winston Churchill had once called the Pearl of Africa. He approached a local driver who held a misspelled sign with his name.

 

 

EISHELL

 

 

“I’m Eichel,” he said.

“Welcome to Uganda, Mr. Eichel.”

They jumped into a waiting white Toyota and sped toward the heart of the country, en route to Murchison Falls. Eichel stared out the window at the tropical landscape. Merchants selling produce from neighboring farms lined the gateways into the towns as they crossed town after town heading toward the north-western part of the country.

“How much longer, driver?”

“Not long,” came the reply.

He thought back to the tip from Jack, through Peter, that had yielded much and pulled out an email printout from his travel bag. It was from Jack addressed to Peter Manuel.

 

 

Subject: Africa

 

Peter,

Mr. Eichel can tag along but we want no interference. ISTF will deal with Mason directly. We need to apprehend him red-handed. We’ll deliver the Deveron document to Mr. Eichel once it’s secured. Btw, I found something that Mr. Eichel may have dropped. Tell him to be careful next time.

 

Bis bald,

Jack Kleve

 

 

Confidence in his clandestine investigation returned. Eichel would keep his distance as instructed. The ride up the rocky path toward Murchison Falls rocked the car as it ascended toward the waterfall that formed part of the Nile River.

The Toyota juddered to a halt.

“The place you’re looking for is a few meters past those trees,” said his driver. “I’ll wait here.”

 

 

 

 

10:27 p.m.

 

“Calla Cress, don’t test me. Give me the artifacts so we can all go home,” Slate said.

His voice was raspy, Italian probably. Calla shook her head slowly and turned round at the sound of approaching footsteps. A dusky shadow emerged from the obscure shrubberies. “I’ll deal with this, Slate. Get back.”

 

Nash caught Calla’s eyes, his knuckle whitening around the trigger of his firearm. Mason emerged from the gassy haze as Slate sidled behind him.

“Really, Shields. By my last count you’re outnumbered two to one.”

“That’s if you passed math. Your numbers don’t add up when it comes to her.”

“I’m sure there’s no need for your firing skills. Cress will comply. Won’t you?” His gaze stabbed into her soul as he turned to Calla. “Give me the manuscript and, while you’re at it, the stones as well.”

“How about I don’t,” muttered Calla.

She studied him furiously. He’d discarded any trace of his normally alluring persona. He stepped toward her, staring into her outraged eyes. “You know that just by possessing it you’re guilty of theft and transfer of stolen goods. I could turn you in.”

She bit her lip. “On my last check I’m the curator and totally credible when it comes to transferring valuable artifacts across borders. I don’t see that on your resume.”

“Hand it over or you’ll face the same calamity your parents endured.”

The words came out of Mason’s lips like a steel spear to her side.

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you,” she said, her steady tone surprising her and those who watched. “What did you do to the Cress family?”

Nash took a firm step forward to where Calla stood and set a hand on her arm, shielding her from Mason’s outburst. “Laskfell, that’s a criminal confession.”

Mason paid him no attention but kept his gaze on Calla. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Calla took a step forward. Was he bluffing? What did he know about her parents? She crushed a fist in his tight jaw. “Criminal!”

Mason gilded backward and collided with the ground, recovering from the unexpected wallop. His hand rambled for a folded handkerchief in his hunting attire and sponged oozing blood from his wounded nostrils.

“Don’t unleash the past, Cress. It will haunt you until your guts are raw.”

“That’s for me to decide.”

“Your father never had it in him and neither do you.”

Nash came between them, shielding her from his menacing approach. “Enough, Laskfell. You know damn well this manuscript is international property, safer in her hands than yours.”

Mason shot them a malicious sneer and surged upward. He raised his rifle at Nash. “Back off, Shields. Let the Americans hang onto another agent. My hand may not be as steady as it used to be so don’t make me stumble.”

Nash’s hand cramped on the trigger. “Her problem is my problem, Laskfell. Keep that in check for your memos.”

“Oh this is boring me to tears. A bit of déjà vu. If I recall that’s the same thing your father said, Cress.”

Mason crooked the gun in Calla’s direction. “One last time. Hand it over!”

Calm.

With all eyes anticipating Calla’s response Jack rose stealthily. Mason’s eyes jerked his way.

Jack shot Nash a deliberate look. It came in two seconds. Nash’s boot slammed into Slates’ shin, flailing him to the grimy path. The distraction gave Jack several seconds to secure a tranquilizer gun from the inside of his army vest and level it. He detonated it straight at Mason. The dart erupted from its shell and tore toward the giant man’s neck.

Slate lunged forward and trapped the small missile with his bare hands, inches from Mason’s throat. Mason stomped forward, casting his three opponents a demonic stare. He aimed his multi-shot sporting rifle. A flash of fire exploded from the barrel.

Rapid motion drew their attention. The bullet ripped through Jack’s chest. It sent him convulsing backward as a deadly stench of sulfur contaminated the air, making Calla’s intestines churn and force a gag. Her mind spun with guilt-ridden emotions and disgust. Her body stiffened as she watched her best friend plunge in slow motion under the force of the blow.

Nash caught Jack as he collapsed backward, sending them both strafing to the wet ground.

Mason’s rifle kept aim at Jack’s lifeless form. “Now, Cress. Do you still want to hang onto the Deveron?”

Calla grasped her bag and moved it round to her back. She shriveled as she watched her two friends. Mason’s firearm lowered a few inches and this time its fury was marked for Nash’s head without any compromise on accuracy.