The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) (7 page)

Laura
rose and stepped into the center of the rocks, holding out her hands. James
rose and she hugged him, squeezing him tightly, willing some of her strength to
him as she felt him hold on, his chest heaving a single time as he fought for
control of his emotions.

“Hello,
what’s this?”

They
both turned to look at Chaney, who had just rolled another of the larger rocks
away. As he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his left hand, his
right had hold of something and was tugging at it none too gently.

Suddenly
whatever he had was torn from his hand and jumped toward her several inches.

“Stay
perfectly still,” said James, still holding her from behind.

“What is
it?” she whispered, afraid to breathe, Chaney’s curious expression as he looked
at them adding a few extra beats as her heart began to pound harder in her
chest.

“We’re
sinking.”

Her
immediate instinct was to try and scramble out of what must be quicksand, but
she knew that was wrong, it would simply cause them to sink further.

But she
also knew this wasn’t quicksand. It couldn’t be. Not here, not at the top of
this plateau, with these rocks, with whatever it was Chaney had been gripping
inching toward her slowly.

This was
something else entirely.

“Chaney,
stay where you are, and get ready to catch Laura.”

Chaney
stood up, bending slightly at his knees, his arms stretched out.

“But—”

Laura
didn’t have a chance to voice her objections. She felt James drop suddenly, his
hands on her bum, then a terrific shove as he pushed her up and toward Chaney.
She felt Chaney’s arms around her, pulling her from whatever it was she had
been standing in, and as he spun her away from the danger, she looked on with
horror as her beloved rapidly sunk, his eyes locked on hers, his hand
outstretched, as he disappeared from sight.

“James!”

Alexandria, Lower Quarter, Egypt

30 BC, Seven Weeks After Cleopatra’s Death

Tarik stood at the edge of an alleyway with his shopkeeper, Kontar,
and watched as the petty thief, Shakir, worked the crowd. Tarik had to admit,
watching the elderly man work was like watching a master artist paint, or
perhaps more appropriately, a dancer, each movement he made choreographed with
precision, executed with the practiced hand of decades of experience.

He was
indeed a master thief.

In the
twenty minutes they had observed him, he had relieved six people of their
purses, and three of bracelets that had yet to be missed. Tarik shook his head
in disgust. To him there was nothing worse than thieves. Men and women worked
long and hard to earn their money, then thieves simply took it from them, as if
they had some sort of entitlement to possess that which they did not earn.

His
blood boiled.

He
pushed back his robes, revealing his belt, and the money purse hooked to it,
then stepped into the marketplace, strolling amongst the stalls, toward Shakir.
And he noticed with satisfaction, that Shakir almost immediately spotted him.

Or
rather his purse.

Within
seconds it seemed Shakir was at his side, and with barely a bump, Tarik had
been relieved of his purse.

But not
the dagger he pulled from its sheath. Turning, he pressed the blade into
Shakir’s back, causing him to stop. Tarik leaned in and whispered in his ear.

“Remain
silent and walk to the alleyway on the right. Make a sound, and I will run you
through.”

Shakir
thankfully remained silent, only nodding. His arms began to rise and Tarik
pushed the tip of the dagger a little harder against the man’s back.

“Hands
down, act natural.”

Again
Shakir nodded, his arms quickly coming down, and they began to weave their way
through the busy market, Shakir’s hands twitching every time a purse made an
appearance. Tarik found it remarkable how many people exposed their money to
the world without a second thought, some so blatantly he at times felt they
deserved to have it stolen, so they could learn a lesson for next time.

But this
market not only sold luxuries, it also sold basic food. And a stolen purse here
could mean a starving family elsewhere. He pushed the dagger a little harder as
his anger boiled at the thought, and he made a promise to himself to donate
more at the temple so they could administer to the starving wretches.

They
entered the alleyway and his shopkeeper, Kontar, grabbed Shakir and pulled him
into the shadows, pushing him face-first against the wall. Tarik flipped their
prisoner around and pressed the dagger to the man’s throat.

“I’ll
have my purse.”

Shakir’s
head shook up and down, his old, leathery skin swaying with the effort like a
gizzard. The purse quickly made an appearance, and Tarik took it, hooking it
back on his belt. He turned to Kontar.

“Show
him.”

Kontar
pulled the necklace out and held it up as Tarik leaned in closer.

“You
sold this to my friend yesterday. Do you remember?”

Shakir
trembled out a nod.

“Where
did you get it?”

Shakir
shook his head. “I-I don’t know.”

“In Ra’s
name, if you don’t tell us, I’ll slit your belly open myself and leave you here
to stain this filthy place,” hissed Kontar, his own dagger making an
appearance.

Shakir’s
eyes were wide with fear, and the sound of water hitting the dirt of the
alleyway caused Tarik to look down then step back as a puddle of urine formed
at their thief’s feet. The old man looked up and away, his face one of shame at
the lack of courage his bladder had shown.

What
could make an old man steal like this?

But
Tarik checked his sympathy, realizing the practiced hand he had watched came
from decades of plying his trade as a young man, a young man who had simply
grown old by the unfortunate fact he had never been killed.

A
tribute to his skill.

“The
name.”

Shakir
shook his head. “I don’t know it, but I know the face.”

Kontar
beamed a quick grin at Tarik, he having a hard time containing his excitement
as well

“Where
is he?”

“It
isn’t a he, it’s a she.”

Tarik
wasn’t prepared for that answer, but as he thought about it, it did make sense.
After all, it was a necklace, one meant for a queen, not a king, its delicate
design feminine. Voices near the alleyway caused all their heads to spin as a
trio of Roman Centurions paused, their backs to them. Tarik cupped his hand
over the old thief’s mouth, but the man didn’t make a sound, probably no more
eager to meet the soldiers than Tarik was.

The
Romans moved on, as did Tarik’s heart as he slowly removed his hand. He and
Kontar both breathed sighs of relief, as did their captive. Tarik pointed at
him, his narrowed eyes and turned down lips meant to elicit as much fear as
possible.

“Who is
she?”

“I have
no idea.”

“Where
did you steal it?”

Shakir
pointed to the marketplace with a shaky finger. “There.”

“In this
market?”

“Yes.”

“Is she
a regular?”

Shakir
shook his head. “No. At least, she wasn’t.”

Tarik’s
eyes narrowed further. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,
every day since the necklace was stolen, she has come to the market.”

“What
does she do?” asked Kontar, apparently unable to contain his excitement any
further.

“I don’t
know. As soon as I see her, I leave.”

“Have
you seen her today?”

“No, but
she should be arriving any moment now. She comes the same time every day.”

“Let me
guess. The same time you stole the necklace from her.”

Shakir
nodded.

Tarik
felt a twinge of pity for the woman. The necklace was obviously important to
her, and this piece of garbage had stolen it with no regard to how it might
impact her. But then he remembered why they were there. The necklace itself was
stolen, stolen from their god.
She
was a thief as well, or at least
associated with thieves.

He had
to know who it was. He pushed Shakir toward the entrance of the alleyway, and
all three stood in the shadows, looking out. “You will point her out to us. If
you try to run, you will find my dagger in your back. It should fetch a good
price in the afterlife.”

Shakir
said nothing, instead his eyes, trained on the crowd, narrowed as he searched
the throngs. Tarik spotted a sundial indicating midday when Shakir pointed.

“There.”

He
pointed at a thick mass of people, and Tarik was about to ask who, when he
spotted her. A woman out of place, her face too clean and pampered to fit in,
despite the ragged robes she wore as a disguise. The expression on her face was
one of worry as her head darted from left to right, then back again, searching
not the vendors, but the customers undulating through the stalls and past the
carts.

It was a
beautiful face, a regal face.

And it
was a face he knew well.

For it
was the face of his sister-in-law, the wife of his beloved youngest brother,
Fadil.

Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site

Two Days Before the Liberty Island Attack

Special Agent Hugh Reading, Interpol, had decided he hated the heat.
How he had allowed himself to be convinced to join this dig on his vacation was
something he’d need to closely examine, to make certain whatever pressure
points had been used on him could never be used again. But at this particular
moment, he was quite content. His chair, positioned in front of the air
conditioner, he himself slouched in it, his feet propped up on either side of
the blessed machine, he now positioned perfectly to enjoy the frigid air that
poured from the belly of the beast, running up his legs, over the boys, up his
stomach and chest, to his sunburnt neck and face.

Simply
put, it was heavenly, if not a little obscene.

And with
his eyes closed, he knew why he was here.

Protection.

It was a
miracle James and Laura had made it out of China alive during the incident
there a few months back. At least this time they had successfully avoided the
news, their contribution to go down in some secret files opened to the public
in twenty five years when no one cared. But here in Egypt, with the Muslim
Brotherhood, whose name belied their true nature as rabid Islamic
fundamentalists, now in control since the ouster of Mubarak, Egypt was no longer
safe.

Not that
it had ever truly been safe.

But now
there was an entirely different level of extremism out there, endorsed by the
government, tacitly endorsed by a police force that was content to sit idly by,
and ignored by a military that was simply waiting for the country to fall into
chaos before they stepped back in and took control, with the blessing of the
international community, and the average non-political citizen.

Egypt
was turning into the prime example of how Islam and democracy were fundamentally
incompatible. Democracy demanded a separation of Church and State. Islam was
not only a religious belief system, it was a legal and judicial system.

Reading
sighed, debating whether or not opening his fly to let the cool air gain access
would be taking things too far. Deciding against it, he recalled his friend Rahim
phoning him at the office during the overthrow of the longtime military
dictator, and the excitement in his voice.

Reading
had been excited too, watching the protests on the television, cheering as
victory after victory was won, he too caught up in the naiveté of the average
Westerner who had no clue about the true underpinnings of Arab politics.

And when
the first election results had come in, he realized the Arab world’s most populous
country was in trouble. And he hadn’t heard from Rahim since.

Reading
shifted and sighed as the cool air reached a nether region it hadn’t before,
his smile growing.
Why the hell did we fight a war down here?
He tried
to remember his history, and decided it must have been the Suez Canal that had
been the objective, but of that he couldn’t be certain, since World War Two had
spread across the entire of North Africa. His brief stint in the Falklands as a
young man had been nothing compared to what those poor bastards had endured
during WWII.

And it
had dragged for years.

Speaking
of dragging.

He
squeezed his butt cheeks, discovering they still ached from the drive here from
Cairo.
I’m getting too old for this.
He was on the wrong side of fifty,
and after the events in London a couple of years ago he had left for Interpol
to avoid the publicity, but it wasn’t just that. He was getting old. He was
feeling old. The joints didn’t hold up like they used to, and chasing down a
suspect was murder in itself.

He patted
his stomach, his eyes still closed, and felt the soft layer that had developed
over the past few years, his flat stomach long since having gone into hiding.

Washboard
abs for delicates.

He
smiled at the phrase he had heard from Acton once. Acton was barely on the
wrong side of forty, and was still in remarkable shape. Reading envied him
sometimes, and always felt a touch of chagrin when he did. He was attractive,
successful, loved by his students, had friends who would give their lives for
him, and a spectacular younger woman who not only was rich, but worshipped the
ground he walked on.

That
might be pushing it.

He
chuckled, then opened his eyes to make sure he was still alone. Satisfied, he
closed his eyes again.