Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (24 page)

But how the hell does he know who I am?

“You are wondering how I know who you are?” asked the man, a bemused smile on his face.

Dawson nodded.

“Unfortunately I cannot tell you that. But to illustrate how well informed I am, I will state your mission. You are here to prevent the sale of a tactical nuclear missile to a group of white supremacists called New Slate, posing as a United Nations Non-Governmental Organization, who potentially kidnapped Professor Laura Palmer, the partner of Professor Acton.”

Dawson knew there was no point in denying any of it. There was clearly a security breach, a breach he would have to worry about later. For now, he needed to keep the situation calm until he figured a way out of it.

“You are extremely well informed, sir.”

Abdullah clapped his hands twice in apparent delight. He swung his leg over the back of his horse and jumped to the ground. The two accompanying him remained on their horses, as they kept wary eyes on Dawson and his men.

Abdullah approached Rahim who bowed his head. “As-salam alaykum.”

“Wa alaykum e-salam,” replied Abdullah who then extended his arms and embraced Rahim. Dawson noticed the old man was missing his middle finger on his right hand.
Curious.
He glanced at the two men on horseback, and noticed they too were missing their right-middle fingers.
Very curious.

“It is good to see you my son,” Abdullah said as he freed Rahim from the embrace.

“And I you, master,” said Rahim, motioning to Reading. “May I present Agent Hugh Reading, formerly of Scotland Yard, now of Interpol. A trusted colleague and old friend.”

The expression on Reading’s face made it clear to Dawson that Reading didn’t feel the same way about Rahim anymore. The glare he gave Rahim could have bored a hole through him if he had continued. Rahim averted his gaze, suggesting to Dawson at least a feeling of guilt at what he had done.

Abdullah clearly had chosen to ignore it, and approached Reading with a smile and arms extended. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Inspector. I am Abdullah bin Saqr.” Reading extended his hand.

“All mine, I’m sure.”

Abdullah grasped Reading’s hand with both of his and shook it vigorously before letting go. Reading turned his head to face Rahim. “You’re English suddenly got a lot better.”

Again Rahim couldn’t make eye-contact. “I am sorry, my friend, but I have what you might call a higher calling.”

“And what would that be?” The derision in Reading’s voice notched him up a spot of respect in Dawson’s mind, the fact Reading was maintaining this much control after being betrayed by somebody he had apparently known for years, was more than Dawson was certain he could do.
I might have broken his neck by now.

“Which brings me back to my original question,” said Abdullah as he now faced Acton, standing within what Dawson would characterize as the kill zone, and civilians might call their “personal space”. Abdullah brushed his right hand across his forehead, tucking some stray locks of hair under his keffiyeh, revealing the missing finger for all to see. Dawson watched Acton for his reaction.

Acton stepped forward and seized the man’s right hand, shoving it high into the air, then yanked his robe, exposing his arm. Immediately the surrounding horsemen aimed their weapons at Acton.

Wasn’t expecting that.

Nubian Desert, Egypt, Former UNICEF Camp

Acton stared the Sheik in the eyes as he gripped his wrist. The man was grinning, and not struggling against him. The fact he was still alive at this point, amazed even him. Why he had decided to test his theory in this fashion he still couldn’t figure out. He’d leave that for when the adrenaline wore off. He turned his attention to the man’s now exposed arm which was covered in an ornate metal sheath, running from the wrist to the elbow. With his free hand, he reached over and bent Abdullah’s wrist forward.

The sound of metal scraping on metal momentarily startled him even though he was expecting it. A blade shot forward from the sheath, through the empty space Abdullah’s finger would have occupied, and when fully extended, its foot long length glinted in the sunlight.

Acton heard BD whistle. Reading had used an American style curse for the first time Acton could remember since knowing him. Acton released the man’s arm and stepped back. Thankfully, Abdullah waved his men off, and they sat back in their saddles. Acton noticed the Delta team lowered their weapons as well.

“Well, Professor?” asked Abdullah as he slid a clasp on the sheath from the wrist toward the elbow, retracting the blade, a click indicating it had returned to its locked position. “Are we who I say we are?”

Acton nodded, not quite believing it. He turned to Reading and BD. “
If
we are to believe them, they are Hassassins.”

“Who are?” asked Reading.

“An Islamic sect believed to have been wiped out in the thirteenth century.”

“Evidently not.” Reading leaned into Acton and whispered in his ear. “Are they friendly?”

Acton shrugged his shoulders and turned his head slightly to Reading, whispering, “You don’t want them as your enemy.”

Reading grunted then turned his attention to Abdullah.

“We are not your enemy.”

Abdullah roared in laughter, which prompted the rest of his men surrounding the depression to laugh as well, creating an odd effect that made Acton feel as if he were the cheesy half-time act at a local football game, trying to kick a field goal for a chance to win a car he didn’t even like.

“Hopefully that’s a good sign,” muttered Reading.

Abdullah raised his hand, cutting off the laughter. “Our brother, Rahim, has vouched for you, Agent Reading. The word of a brother is all I need.” He turned to Acton. “As for you, Professor, we are well aware of what happened last year in London, and know you can be trusted to do the right thing. And with the disappearance of your beloved, Professor Palmer, I believe your motives to be pure.”

Relief washed over Acton at Abdullah’s words.
You just might make it out of this alive!

“But you,” said Abdullah, stepping toward BD. “You, I know your mission. But I do not know if I trust you.”

“And why is that?” asked BD as he removed his sunglasses, in an effort, Acton guessed, to convey his honesty.
I think you’ll need to do more than let him gaze into your eyes.

Abdullah stepped close to BD and grabbed him by both shoulders, staring deep into his eyes. BD, to his credit, didn’t even flinch, but simply met his gaze. Abdullah had lowered his voice, speaking
at
BD, but not
to
him. “If you knew the true mission of those who now possess the weapon, I wonder how willing you would be to sacrifice your life to stop them?”

“Tell me their mission, and judge me not by my words, but my actions,” said BD.

Abdullah leaned in and whispered in his ear, then leaned back to see the reaction on BD’s face. The moment Abdullah’s lips had stopped moving with what appeared to be a single word, BD’s jaw dropped for a moment, then snapped back shut. His eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw set and the skin over his temples drew thin.

“We cannot let that happen,” he said through clenched teeth.

Abdullah continued to read BD’s face, then let go of his shoulders and stepped back, nodding. “I believe you.”

Acton and Reading both let out audible sighs of relief. Abdullah waved his arm and yelled something in Arabic. The men surrounding the depression turned and disappeared over the crest one by one, the hoof beats the only indication they had ever been there.

Abdullah sat on the sand, cross legged, and motioned for the others to join him.

BD motioned at his men to stand down, then sat himself across from Abdullah, with Reading, Acton and Rahim completing the circle.

“So what is the target?” asked Acton.

Abdullah grimaced. “A target that will result in an unending war, a target that will result in the end of mankind.”

Acton glanced at BD, who much to his horror, was nodding in agreement.

Nubian Desert, Egypt, Former UNICEF Camp

Acton stared at Dawson, searching his face for the answer to the question that remained unanswered. It was Reading who at last broke the silence.

“What the bloody hell does that mean? Washington? Jerusalem?”

Abdullah shook his head. “No, much worse, my friend. Their target is Makkat al-Mukarramah, or as you Westerners call it—”

“Mecca,” whispered Acton. If the desert they sat on could get any quieter, it just did. Acton’s strength left his body as if he were about to pass out. He took a breath, then looked at the men sitting around him. Reading was clearly as shocked as he was, and Acton could tell by the look they exchanged that he realized the ramifications. If white, American, Christians were to destroy Mecca with a nuclear weapon, it would trigger a Jihad the likes of which the world had never seen, nor likely would ever see again.

“My God, the killing would never stop,” gasped Reading. “It
couldn’t
stop.”

“Not without one side eliminating the other,” said Abdullah. “There could be no peace after this. Either all Muslims would need to be erased from the face of this Earth, or all Christians. There could be no middle ground.”

“Clearly New Slate thinks we would win,” said Dawson. “We need to find this weapon, now.”

Abdullah nodded. “Unfortunately we were supposed to capture the weapon on this very spot, but were thwarted, our agreed upon rendezvous time advanced, our operatives slain, their bodies discovered on the shore not an hour from here.” The pounding of hooves interrupted him, and a lone horseman appeared over the crest of the hill behind Acton. He twisted to see the man jump off his horse still in mid gallop, tumble on the ground and recover at a run, something held tightly in his outstretched hand.

Abdullah extended his hand and took the object from the new arrival. Acton was shocked to see it was a cellphone. “Marhaba?”

Abdullah listened, nodding, then hung up.

“It is as I feared. Our brothers across the sea have confirmed that the Americans and the weapon have arrived. They are only hours away from being in position. And should they succeed, all is lost.”

“What sea? Where are they?” asked Reading, clearly impatient.

“The Red Sea,” said Acton. “That means they’re already in Saudi Arabia?”

Abdullah nodded. “Yes, and spotted on the shore, most likely preparing to head to Mecca for the Hajj.”

Acton closed his eyes for a moment.
The Hajj! As if things couldn’t get any worse!
Every year on the eighth day of the last month of the Islamic calendar, millions of Muslims from around the world gathered. The death toll amongst the most devout of Islam would be staggering. It was genius in its simplicity. Start a war you know you have to win, then rely on your government, with the most powerful arsenal in the world at its disposal, to do just that.

“If they are already there, then we have no time to lose,” said Dawson, standing. He whipped his hand in a circle over his head. Acton started at the sound of the turbines firing up in the helicopter.

“And where do you think you’re going?” asked Reading.

“Mecca.”

Red Sea Coast, Saudi Arabia

Cole hid his disgust for the man in front of him, his blackened teeth in full display as he laughed at Cole struggling with the Ihram, a robe he was informed was mandatory for all men attending the Hajj. The long white wrap was at first unwieldy, but once in place, rather comfortable, and contained plenty of loose areas to conceal weapons, weapons his men now brought ashore. His wrap secure, he climbed in the back of one of the three trucks now parked on the beach. Inside the cube shaped interior, stacked from floor to roof, were crates of dates, a popular food during the celebrations.

Disgusting.

“This truck, it meets your specifications exactly,” said the man, his hands clasped, fingers wriggling like the worm he was. “Here, I show you.”

Cole jumped to the ground and followed the man. He approached the gas cap located just behind the cab of the truck, and unscrewed it. He then unscrewed another cap inside, lengthening the tank inlet several fold. “See, with this”—he held up the cap—“you can fill it like any other gas tank.” He reached in with his hand and pushed something inside. Cole heard a clicking sound and a portion of the truck bottom directly behind the cab, dropped slowly to the ground, a hydraulic hiss the only hint at the mechanism behind it. “Now you climb inside, pull up the ramp, and your cargo is secure, hidden from anyone. No false backs to discover, undetectable.”

Cole eyed the ingenious design. It provided a hiding place directly behind where the driver would sit, but integrated seamlessly into the storage area of the truck, accessible only from the hidden door underneath the truck.

“You’ve used this before?”

He nodded profusely. “Oh yes, many times, to transport, shall we say,
special
, cargo?”

His leer and suggestive eyes sent Cole’s blood boiling.
Most likely human cargo. Most likely white sex slaves for the sheiks. Girls
and
boys.

He motioned to Chip. “Climb in, let me know.” Chip nodded and slid up the ramp, disappearing from site. The ramp pulled up, incorporating itself into the truck design, leaving no hint it had ever been there save the crease in the sand. A few moments later, the ramp lowered again, and Chip slid out, feet first, scrambling crablike onto the beach.

“Looks good, boss,” he said, wiping the sand off his pants and hands. “There’s enough room for I’d say three people plus a good chunk of equipment if we uncrate it.” He brushed the sand off his pants. “It’ll be tight, but we’ll fit. I’d suggest coming out the way I went in, though; on hands and knees,” he said with a grin.

“Room for the item?”