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.”

  “Roger that, we’ll check it out. Bravo Zero-Two, out.”

  Red pointed at Atlas, Spock and Jimmy. “You’re with me. The rest of you stay here.” Red walked briskly toward the dunes to the north, the sun now high enough for him to see clearly, long shadows cast by the dunes to their right still hiding anything that might be concealed in the sand.

  “What the hell is that?” asked Atlas, pointing to the top of one of the mounds.

  Red looked up and saw a long, thin, dark shadow cast on the sand as they approached. He squinted as he tried to get a better look, and as they neared he cursed.

  Something was resting atop a tripod.

  He rushed up the hill, and as they got closer it became clear there was an iPhone aimed at the camp below. He broke left, out of the line of sight, motioning for the others to do the same. It was already too late if it was recording, but they might just get lucky.

  Red approached the phone from behind, careful not to touch it. Atlas leaned in close, looking through the viewfinder then pointed at the display showing it was recording, then at a device about the size of a laptop sitting on the ground, masking tape covering any indicator lights that might have revealed it during the night.

  Red held a finger to his lips then leaned in himself, taking a look. And cursed. Silently. The angle had been set up perfectly, giving the camera a clear view of the camp showing his team and the tents, including the Black Stone, sitting in the open, the top off the crate, and with the down angle the camera had, it was quite evident what was inside.

  He stepped back and ran his finger over his throat. Atlas tapped the display, stopping the recording. “Stopped.”

  Spock pointed at the device on the ground. “What do you make of this?”

  “I think it’s a portable satellite modem,” replied Jimmy.

  “Which means anything they were recording could have been transmitted,” said Atlas, cursing.

  Red shook his head. “Photograph everything then bring it down to the camp. See if you can tell if anything was transmitted.”

  Atlas snapped several photos then grabbed the tripod in one massive hand as Spock retrieved the modem from the desert sand. As they slid down the dune to the camp below, Red activated his comm.

  “Control, Bravo Zero-Two. We found the source of the signal. And we may have a problem, over.”

  Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque, Mecca, Saudi Arabia

  Professor Mahmoud Hamidullah’s heart slammed against his chest, his palms drenched as he tried to keep a no-nonsense expression on his face. The guard inspected his pass, running it through the computer, seeming to spend far longer than was normal on the regular security procedure.

  Or is it just your imagination?

  “Your purpose?”

  He gulped.

  Calm down or they’ll know something’s wrong.

  “I’m here to prepare for His Royal Highness’ arrival.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not aware of any visit scheduled for today.”

  Mahmoud decided to channel his inner thespian, reaching back to his theatre elective in University and imitating the demeanor of yesterday’s interrogators.

  “Of course you’re not aware of any visit! After what happened to His Royal Highness Prince Khalid, do you seriously think they’d let the likes of you know of this new ceremony?” He pointed at the entrance. “Now let me through, there is little time!”

  The guard recoiled slightly, then quickly handed the ID back, motioning for the others to let the professor through. He strode past the guards with purpose, his journey to the Kaaba a blur as his heart pounded in his chest, his desire to urinate right here, right now, almost overwhelming.

  Deep breaths. Slow and easy.

  It was easier said than done, but his breathing eventually came under control until the great Kaaba came into sight, sending adrenaline pumping through his veins once again. There were guards throughout the mosque but he continued forward with resolve, confidence being the key in a society such as his where the more certain you looked, the less certain those around you became.

  And no one dared interfere with someone who might be more important than themselves.

  As he rounded the corner toward the Black Stone he held his breath, not sure what to expect.

  Instead he found nothing, simply the stone encased in silver, the black ceremonial curtains of the Kaaba in place, hiding the structure surrounding the stone.

  Nothing looked amiss.

  Could Professor Acton be mistaken?

  He pursed his lips as he got closer. Acton hadn’t actually said it had been stolen, just that they had found a duplicate that they feared might be the genuine relic.

  Leaning forward, he gasped as the truth was suddenly revealed.

  There’s no damage!

  The reason he and his team were in Mecca for the ritual was to repair the damage caused during the last Hajj. The silver frame, attached to the Black Stone by silver nails, had become slightly separated. It needed to be repaired so that during Ramadan, when hundreds of thousands if not millions of the faithful desperately lay their hands and lips on the sacred stone, it didn’t come apart.

  The consequences could be disastrous.

  But this stone was flush against the silver frame, no evidence whatsoever of there being any damage.

  This was not the Black Stone in the photos he had been provided with.

  “You, what are you doing here?”

  He spun toward the voice to find a guard storming toward him, anger written on his face as his eyes glared at Mahmoud, sending a shiver down the scholar’s spine.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28