“Yes.”
“What happened?”
The voice relayed how the other two went into Nehem’s apartment to ambush Wyatt and his companions. He hadn’t seen what happened inside, but he did see when one of the men was pushed over the railing to the ground below.
“The fall killed him?” Sharouf asked.
“No. His leg was broken. The police were on their way. I had to kill him myself.” The voice was cold. Clearly, taking another human life meant absolutely nothing to him. He may as well have squashed an ant.
“What about the other?” Sharouf tried to sound businesslike, masking the concern in his tone.
“He was basically dead when I found him lying on his back in the apartment. He was unconscious, barely breathing. His jaw and nose were broken, probably making it hard to breathe. I helped him stop breathing.”
Sharouf listened carefully to the vague account. His observer had handled things exactly as he would have. Loose ends were not tolerated. It would have made for a sticky situation if his assassins had been taken to a hospital and kept in custody. If one were to talk to the police and tell them who he worked for, Mamoud’s carefully woven anonymity would be exposed, and his entire operation would crumble like a paper-thin cracker under a boot. Sharouf himself knew that were he to fail, death was the only way out. No hospitals. No police. Even he could not be permitted to become a potential loose end. So delicate were the plans Mamoud had laid.
“It would seem the Americans are going to be more trouble than we first suspected,” the man said.
Sharouf would not admit that he’d underestimated Wyatt and his companion. To do so would appear weak and ill prepared. He could afford neither. “Our men may have underestimated them, but I did not. Wyatt is a highly trained killer, and his friend has been in more than a few fights. If they were careless, our men deserved what they got. While it is unfortunate, we must move on. Tell me, where did they go?”
“I put a GPS tracker on their car. After I took care of the two problems, I was able to track them to Tel Aviv. They were staying at a hotel on the edge of the city. According to the tracking device, the car they were in stopped at the hotel and then went to another address on the north side of town.”
“A decoy?”
“No,” the voice said. “They had a driver. He dropped them off and probably went home. I stuck around, assuming they would probably be in a hurry to leave.”
“And were they?” Sharouf scratched his chin as he listened to the account.
“Yes. They came out the front doors around ten minutes after I arrived. They got in a car that took them to the airport. That is where I am sitting right now.”
Sharouf weighed the information. The Americans left in a hurry. At least that was what his observer was telling him. That could mean a few things. One, they were afraid after the failed attack and decided to get out of the country while they still could.
He wanted to believe that was the case, but Sharouf was no fool. People like Wyatt and Schultz weren’t easily spooked. It would take more than a couple of hired guns to scare them off.
The other possibility, and the likelier one, in Sharouf’s mind, was that they had figured out a piece of the puzzle. If he could find out where they were going, Sharouf could circumvent the slow work Nehem was doing. It was a hopeful plan, but it could work. All he needed was to know where Wyatt was headed.
“Do you know where their plane went?”
The man on the other end took a deep breath and sighed. “No.”
Well, it was worth a try.
“But,” he continued, “I did see the plane they flew in.”
Sharouf perked up, his right eyebrow rising slightly. “Go on.”
“It was a private jet, kept in one of the hangars on the outskirts of the tarmac. Easy enough to spot since it was parked alone. As it took off, I was able to write down the numbers on the side of the tail.”
“Give them to me.”
14
The door to Nehem’s room burst open, and Sharouf entered like an angry bull. He stormed across the small space to where Nehem sat at his desk, surprised but not scared. Not yet anyway.
Sharouf drew his pistol from his side and aimed the weapon at Nehem’s head. “Time’s up, Doctor.”
Nehem’s face waxed pale, confused and worried. “What are you talking about? I still have several hours left.”
The Arab looked over at the cot against the wall and noticed the sheets and blanket were not folded, instead lying in a crumpled heap as if someone had just got out of bed.
“You sure sleep a lot for someone whose life is on a timer. We watched you waste your time and ours,” he motioned to the cameras. His eyes narrowed, and he brandished the gun at the archaeologist who was now starting to cower a little. “You know what I think? I think you have been lying to us. I believe that you already know where the relics are. Either you tell me right now, or I will kill you. After I kill you, I will kill your daughter. And I promise you, she will take a long time to die.”
Nehem trembled, but he would not surrender easily. “You cannot kill me. If I die, your boss will never find the relics. They will be lost to the annals of time forever. And whatever it is you have planned will fail.”
“Interesting,” Sharouf said. “I find it odd that the Americans you contacted are on their way to Indonesia right now. You wouldn’t happen to know why that is, would you?”
Nehem tried to keep his face expressionless, but he failed miserably. Like a bad poker player at a table full of seasoned gamblers, his eyes gave away what he was so desperately trying to hide. There was a glimmer of hope, though. If Tommy was on his way to Indonesia, that meant he’d figured out the code. He was on the right path. At the very least, if Nehem was going to die, he could do so with the knowledge that Mamoud Al Najaar would never possess the holy relics.
Sharouf pressed the gun to Nehem’s forehead. “Tell me where they went, exactly, and save the life of your daughter.”
Cautiously, Nehem moved his hand backward to the surface of the desk and tapped on a sheet of paper next to the keyboard. “That is where they are going,” he said in a weak voice. “It is an ancient Buddhist temple in Indonesia, in the Java region. You will find one of the relics there.”
“Which one?”
Nehem forced a laugh. “I don’t know. The clues the high priest left were vague for a reason. Whoever finds the relics will only know what they have found when they find it.”
“So you do not know if it is the Hoshen or the sacred stones at this place?” Sharouf pulled the gun back a few inches. He looked over at the writing on the paper.
“No. No one could know that. I’m telling you the truth. But you should also know this. If the Americans are on their way, you will never catch up to them. They are far smarter than you. Once they arrive, it will not take them long to discover the relic. And when they do, your boss will have failed.”
Sharouf considered the man’s words for a moment. He stared into the fearful eyes of his prisoner without sympathy. The hand with the gun flashed to the left, smacking the side of the weapon against Nehem’s temple. The man crumpled to the floor. A few seconds later, a thin cut oozed crimson down the side of his face and underneath his eye.
Sharouf turned to the two guards he’d brought and ordered them to take Nehem downstairs to the car. “Make sure he doesn’t cause you any trouble when you get him there. We have a long flight ahead of us, and the last thing we need is more delays.”
The men nodded and hustled into the room. They scooped up the unconscious hostage by the armpits and dragged him through the open door. When they were gone, Sharouf stepped over to the desk and picked up the sheet of paper. He stared at the name written on it.