The alchemy thief, p.1
The Alchemy Thief, page 1
The Alchemy Thief
Pirates & Puritans Book 1
By R.A. Denny
Copyright 2021 R.A. Denny
All Rights Reserved
All Bible verses are from The Geneva Bible in Old English of 1599, which is in the public domain, with modern spelling by R.A. Denny.
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Dedicated to my mother and her unsinkable courage in the face of hardship.
With special thanks to my sons Ryan and Drew for their inspiration and encouragement.
CONTENTS
Title
Map of New England - 1657
Map of Morocco - 1657
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
The Sultan’s Court
Glossary
Author’s Note
Map of New England - 1657
Map of Morocco - 1657
Chapter 1
Dar El Makhzen, Tangier, Morocco
August 26, A.D. 2019
25 Dhu al Hijjah 1440 A.H. (Hijri Calendar)
His parents called him Ismail after the Moroccan Warrior King, but even his new Glock-17 didn’t make Ismail feel like a warrior. As a security guard, he watched for anything out of place while dozens of tourists streamed through the doors of the Dar El Makhzen museum to gaze at the intricate ceilings, colorful tilework, and Moroccan artifacts on display. Nothing unusual caught Ismail’s eye.
“Sultan Moulay Ismail built this palace,” a Moroccan tour guide announced. “He sired a thousand children.”
The tourists paused from snapping pictures just long enough to digest that tidbit.
“A thousand children?” A blond boy said. “Do you really expect us to believe that?”
The tour guide grinned. “Sure. Kept a whole harem of women. He was a busy man.”
“Sounds to me like the sultan was a glutton for punishment.” A man with a large beer belly chuckled.
Leaning against a whitewashed wall, Ismail silently agreed with the overweight man. Dealing with one wife was bad enough. Ismail’s wife was pregnant with their sixth child, and he had no desire to try to beat Moulay Ismail’s world record. Six was more than enough.
One after another, the tour guides, dressed in their long white djellabas, led the tourists through the colorful tiled museum courtyard to gape at the Roman columns topped with Corinthian capitals. Ismail knew all the tour guides who brought groups to the Dar El Makhzen palace in Tangier. These men picked up their groups of day-trippers at the docks hot off the ferries from Spain, and delivered their monologues in several different languages in rapid succession, leaving most of the tourists clueless. Ismail had heard their spiels a thousand times. They alleged this or that building might have been built by this or that sultan. Ismail wasn’t sure how much of it was true, and he didn’t care as long as they brought in the tourists, so he could keep his job.
Ismail yawned as a tour group moved from the courtyard into one of the seven spacious rooms of the Museum of Moroccan Arts. To support his growing family, Ismail had picked up a second job in the evening at a local carpet shop. As a result, Ismail was sleep-deprived. He sauntered into a quiet room that contained some vases in recessed cubbies and a few old books fanned opened on display stands. Most of these bound manuscripts were written in Arabic, which Western tourists viewed as artwork rather than literature. One small brown leather book was handwritten in the Latin alphabet in some long-forgotten language.
Even with the cool breeze coming off the Mediterranean Sea, it was a hot day. Ismail’s job was to watch the tourists. If they failed to hire a guide, sometimes Ismail would assist by translating the Arabic and French display tags into English or Spanish. Every now and then, a child reached out to touch one of the displays while his parents were busy looking up at the ornate carved wooden ceilings. Then Ismail ordered, “Do not touch.”
Problems in the museum were rare. About a month ago, a fake tour guide led two American girls through the building. In the middle of lecturing the girls, the scammer stopped to turn a page in the small brown book and snap a photograph. Ismail ordered him to stop. The man moved on to another room.
Shortly thereafter, Ismail caught the man turning pages in the same book. Ismail escorted the man out of the museum and warned the girls that the man did not work for the tourism board. At the time, Ismail didn’t think much about it. He didn’t even bother to mention the incident to the museum director.
An attractive woman in a long, loose djellaba and light blue scarf strolled into the room with a young boy. Seeing the woman made Ismail think of his wife, Tala. Though many Moroccans like Ismail were of mixed Arab and Berber descent, Tala was pure Berber (or Imazighen, as Tala would say.) She had been born in a small village in the Rif Mountains. Ismail met Tala on a Sunday in the old medina. She was selling her farm produce in her vividly colored dress with her curly red hair flowing from under her brightly decorated straw hat. Looking into her sultry green eyes, he had been instantly captivated. Convincing her to marry and to move into the city had not been easy. Her father and brothers, Riffian Imazighen militants who wanted a separate Imazighen state, opposed her marriage to an Arab man. Tala defied their wishes and followed her heart.
Ismail pictured their small, run-down home on a narrow side street often littered with trash and felt ashamed he could not afford better. As it had turned out, his beautiful Tala had a sharp tongue and was never satisfied. She constantly threatened to take the children and return to her family’s home in the mountains. On some days, Ismail wished she would go.
The woman in the blue scarf pointed at the vases on display as she gave her son a Moroccan history lesson. The boy, who was about the age of Ismail’s eldest son, wore jeans and a typical schoolboy’s backpack. The only history Ismail’s wife ever taught their children was when she railed about how her people, the Imazighen or “free people,” had been marginalized and mistreated. She constantly reminded Ismail that the palace in which the museum was housed had been built by an Amazigh general of the Jaysh-al-Rifi in the 17th century. With her eyes flashing, she assailed Ismail for the one-thousandth time, telling him to correct the tour guides. The palace was Amazigh, not Arab. But over the years, Tangier had belonged to so many different nations, what difference did it make?
If Ismail spoke up the way Tala wanted, word would get back to the museum director that he was interfering with the guides. Ismail might lose his job. With a sixth child on the way, Ismail could not afford to lose this job. Why couldn’t Tala understand? Ismail bet that the woman in the light blue scarf did not spend all her energy berating her husband.
***
Before leaving the safe house to head through the medina to the museum, Salima had covered her head with a light blue scarf, putting aside her hijab to avoid attention. Salima’s plan was working. The security guard had barely glanced at her. He was lost in his own world. Salima pointed to a vase and described its origins to her ten-year-old son, Ayoub. The vase stood next to the small brown book they had come to steal.
Salima had confidence in her oldest son, whom she had briefed many times. Even so, her heart was racing and her palms were sweating. It was one thing to plan and rehearse and another to go through with it. Mother and son spread out and browsed the other displays in the room as they waited for the signal.
Five years ago, her husband Omar’s dark eyes had blazed with zeal as he announced he was moving the family from their home in Morocco to Syria to join the Islamic State. Despite the promised financial benefits, she had not wanted to take their children into a war zone. But as an obedient wife, she had no choice in the matter, so she remained quiet and followed.
In Syria, Omar made the final sacrifice for his beliefs. He had died in a gunfight in which a third of the men had perished.
At first, Salima had been overcome with grief. But living among the comrades and working beside the other women who were there to support their men, Salima had found a new purpose and a new hope. Omar had been called by Allah to set up a paradise on earth. Although that paradise had been stolen, Omar’s dreams must not die with him.
As the weeks in Raqqa went by, the daily airstrikes and bombardments were unbearable. Food became scarce. Finally, Salima set out on foot with her children to return to Morocco. But before leaving, she promised, along with other women, that they would support the caliphate and raise their children to be soldiers. If their men couldn’t make it happen, the women and their children would. They would do whatever was necessary, even if it meant taking military action. The West would pay for the deprivations they had inflicted on her people. If the infidels thought they had won, they were dead wrong.
Now her moment had come. Once they deciphered the secrets in that little book, the Islamic State could wipe the haughty infidels off the face of the earth. Omar’s death would be avenged at last.
Her son, Ayoub, was studying a Roman urn nearby. Pride surged through Salima. Despite what he was about to do, Ayoub appeared cool and calm. At ten, he was the image of his handsome father with his dark, thick eyebrows and hair, although Ayoub had not yet gone through his growth spurt. He still looked like a child, a mere boy. Out of the corner of her eye, Salima glanced at the guard. The man had no clue. Why would anyone suspect a mother and her young son?
Ayoub was about to become a hero. He had that daring nature Salima had found so attractive in his father. No wonder the boy had been chosen to usher in the Day of Judgment. The tale of his bravery on this day would be told for centuries. But at ten, could he really understand the danger he faced? Salima took a deep breath. The others should have started by now. Had something gone wrong? She strained to listen. Her own heart beat in her ears.
“Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me how to find the Andalusian garden?” An elderly American woman dressed in khaki pants addressed the guard, interrupting Salima’s concentration. “My granddaughter wants to see the flowers.” The woman held the hand of a little girl in pigtails dressed in pink.
The sight of the little girl jarred Salima. She pictured the child walking through trellises covered with blooming flowers, and she thought of her own small daughter, Layla, whom Salima had left in the care of her aunt. Her arms ached to hold her sweet little girl just one more time. Salima stiffened. Her chest tightened. She tried to breathe. I am doing this for them. Their lives will be better. Her actions today would ensure her children’s future financial security, give them a better life, and secure their place in heaven.
***
From the moment Ayoub stepped through the museum doors, he kept mental tabs of the positions of the guard, the guides, and the tourists, all while pretending to be interested in the displays. Currently, an annoying old woman, an eager little girl, and a tired security guard held his attention. Ayoub’s heart pounded and his breath quickened, yet he maintained a cool exterior. After his family fled from Raqqa, Ayoub had stolen many times, and each time he had experienced an exhilarating rush, but nothing like this. He had been raised as a cub of the caliphate, and he was about to change the world. His whole body was energized by the danger. Ayoub had never felt so alive. The book was only a few feet away. But so was the guard. Like a cocked AK-47, Ayoub was ready.
***
A loud explosion rocked the building. The floor shook. Frightened tourists screamed. Ismail froze. His heart pounded. Terrified faces looked at him with wide eyes. The little girl was crying. But then Ismail remembered his training. He was security. He was in charge here.
“Get down! Everyone on the floor!” he yelled. He ran into the courtyard. Nothing there had been damaged. The explosion must have been outside.
Tourists dropped to the floor, looking at him as if he were a terrorist, even though his uniform shirt identified him as security. They desperately swiped their cell phones.
“I’m security. Don’t panic!” Ismail said, partly to himself. “You!” Ismail pointed to a man on the floor with his cell phone out. “Call 19. Tell them it’s an emergency. I’m going to investigate. Keep the doors closed. Stay quiet until I return.”
Ismail dashed toward the front doors of the museum. This could be a terrorist attack. Should I pull out my gun? Ever since the Bardo National Museum attack in Tunisia, Ismail had been afraid something similar could happen here. As a precaution, Ismail’s security company had provided him with a gun. Ismail could not forget that the guard at Bardo had been accused of collusion with the terrorists and jailed for months until he was finally absolved.
Ismail pulled his Glock 17 from under his clothes and pushed open one of the smaller doors built into the large ornate doors of the palace. The museum was built on the tallest spot in the city. Its doors opened into the narrow streets of the Kasbah. Outside, people were running and screaming. Sirens sounded.
Ismail jumped down the few steps and peered around the corner of the building into the Place du Mechouar. Pandemonium reigned. People were knocking over tables and goods in the rush to escape the area. Some were lying on the ground and moaning. A large gap had been blown into the far wall near Bab Bahr, the gate that stood high above the Mediterranean Sea. Rubble from the wall blocked the street entrance.
Twisted metal and body parts were strewn across the northern end of the lot. Smoke filled the air, along with a putrid smell. Ismail felt nauseous. A few people were bent over assisting the injured. Others led victims away, bloody and dazed. A vehicle near Bab Bahr had been blown to pieces. Military police dressed in camouflage uniforms and berets and brandishing machine guns soon appeared from several entrances, some climbing over the debris that blocked Rue Riad Sultan, the main street, and others entering through Bab Haha, the gate to the medina. Emergency responders poured into the square.
Ismail thought of the guard at the Bardo museum, gulped, and summoning all his courage, he scanned the parking lot for any signs of assailants. But whoever they were, they had disappeared. Ismail put his gun away.
He took it all in. He could do nothing here to help. His duty was to protect the museum. I need to get back to my job. Panic tightened around his chest. What if the explosion were some sort of decoy? What if the terrorists were after some priceless item inside? Perhaps the decorative firearms.
Ismail bounded back up the stairs to the museum entrance. Somebody had locked the doors. He banged on a door with his fists but then remembered that he had the key. His hands trembling, he turned the key and opened the door.
People were huddled in groups on the palace floor.
“It’s all right. You can get up,” Ismail reassured the tourists. “A car bomb exploded, but the military police have arrived. They’ll tell us when it’s safe to come out. Don’t worry. This place was once a fortress. We’re surrounded by thick walls.”
But he pictured the hole that had been blasted into the formidable outer wall of the Kasbah, and he did not feel safe.
“Guard! Sir!” An old woman came rushing toward Ismail. Her eyes were open wide with alarm. “A boy stole a book!” she exclaimed.
“What?” Ismail replied.
“The boy! He grabbed a book from back there.” She pointed. “He ran off with it.”
“He what?” Ismail repeated. He was still in a bit of a shock from seeing shredded body parts flung about the parking lot.
“Right after the explosion. The boy grabbed a book off the display, and he dashed out the door.” She pointed to the exit on the opposite end of the courtyard which led to the Andalusian garden. “A woman ran after him.”
Ismail studied the informant. She was the grandmother who had asked about the gardens earlier. She was about 70 years old with curly white hair and wire-rimmed glasses. She did not fit the profile of a criminal. He rushed into the room where the books were kept.
