“There had to have been a lot of soldiers traipsing around the continent after the war,” Sam said. “What makes this story stand out?”
“The legend is that the pilot offered a great reward if someone could find his downed plane and take him to it. But he died, and the plane was never found. Naturally, everyone assumed it must contain gold stolen during the war. But after talking with the villagers, it seems more likely that the story was embellished over the years. None of them mentioned gold.”
“And no one’s looked since?”
“Of course they have. There are even groups that advertise it as the highlight of their tour.”
“I have a question,” Remi said. “How is it that Karl and Brand found it when no one else could?”
“I think because their interest differed from everyone else’s,” he said. “Everyone else, without exception, wanted only to know where the plane was located because they hoped to find gold. The villagers were always very happy to point them in the right direction. Of course the direction varied, depending on which villager they happened to ask. What all these people failed to realize was that anyone who saw the pilot is no longer alive. I think that’s why the directions varied so greatly.” He glanced toward Albert, then back at Sam, saying, “Unlike everyone who came before them, Karl and Brand weren’t interested in the plane right off. They were thinking documentary. Filming candid responses. They’re the first to ask if anyone was related to the villagers who actually found the pilot or those who spoke to him.”
“They were filming?” Sam asked.
He nodded. “They wanted to document how the legend was passed down from generation to generation. But later, when they went through the film footage, they realized that these particular villagers spoke of a specific place in the upper desert mountains where the pilot was found. One villager even produced the parachute. And so they thought that it was worth pursuing.” He gave a tired shrug. “No one thought they’d find it, but they did.”
“Where is this place?” Sam asked.
“The villagers called it Camel Rock. It’s somewhere up in the Atlas Mountains.”
“Can you take us?”
“That’s just it, I don’t know where it is. I wasn’t with them when they found it. But I think Durin went out with them, at some point. He might be able to show you.”
“How do we get in touch with him?”
Zakaria tried calling. “It goes right to voice mail. He’s usually with his sister. She’s very sick. Cancer. But he’s supposed to call me this evening when he returns from visiting her. I’ll set up a meeting.”
They exchanged numbers, Zakaria telling them he’d telephone as soon as he heard anything at all. As promised, he called later that afternoon, saying that Durin would meet them in the main square at the medina that night at seven.
4
The scent of grilled meat and diesel fuel permeated the air as Sam and Remi neared the open-air market. Soon, the faded orange-red clay buildings on either side of the narrow cobblestone streets were filled with the souk and its covered stalls with vendors hawking their wares, everything from clothing, jewelry, and baskets to the finest spices. Motorbikes sped past, the whir of their engines mixing with the constant beat of drums and rhaita flutes as snake charmers played for their cobras, trying to lure an audience. In the main square, Sam expertly stepped between Remi and a vendor who tried to put a snake around her shoulders. “Trust me,” he told the man. “She’s not interested.”
“Playing hero, Fargo?” Remi asked as they continued on, avoiding a woman who tried to grab her hand, offering to paint henna on it.
“If he knew your aversion to snakes — and how quick you are with a knife — I doubt he’d be so eager to put one near you.” They stopped halfway down the row of shops facing the square, taking a look around. “He did say meet by this café?”
“There he is,” Remi said, nodding in the opposite direction.
Zakaria Koury saw them and waved as they approached. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo,” he said, then gave a wide smile. Apparently, he’d forgiven Sam for roughing him up. “You found me. Good.”
Sam shook hands with him. “Where’s Durin?”
“He’s on his way. First, some refreshment.”
He drew them past a stall with skewers of meat and vegetables set out to another that served drinks, then, without waiting, said something in Arabic to the vendor, who indicated they should sit at the table along one side. “Better this way,” Zakaria said quietly. “In case someone’s watching. Right now, we’re just a few tourists stopping for coffee. Durin is worried about being followed.”
Sam took a casual look around. No one seemed to be paying them the least bit of attention. “Why would anyone be watching?”
“Durin thinks that Karl and Brand aren’t the only parties interested in this downed plane. He tells me there have been — how should I say it? — some less than savory inquiries.”
“Did he say who?”
“No. And he wasn’t happy that I’d talked to you after he told me not to talk to anyone. It wasn’t until I explained that you were funding Karl and Brand’s project that he relaxed enough to agree to meet with you. He should be here anytime.”
“You think he’ll agree to take us out to the site where he last saw Brand and Karl?” Sam asked.
“I don’t see why not,” he said, as someone placed cups of coffee on the table in front of them. “He says he tried to talk Karl and Brand from going out alone. Even if they did find it, considering how long that plane’s been up there, and all the weather it’s endured, he doubts there’s much left to find.”
Their strong coffee nearly finished, Zakaria nodded out toward the open square. “There he is now.”
Sam saw a tall blond man about the same age as Zakaria, mid-twenties, smoking a cigarette as he walked. He looked over his shoulder several times as though looking for a tail. When he saw Zakaria, he seemed to relax, slowing his pace.
Sam paid for the coffee, and the three joined him.
“At last,” Durin said as Zakaria made the introductions. He dropped his cigarette, grinding it out with his foot. “Maybe my imagination is getting the best of me. Every person I saw seemed to be watching me.”
“I warned the Fargos that you were worried about being followed.”
“It’s true,” Durin said, taking another look around. “I hope I’m wrong, but it’s best to be careful.”
Sam checked the area he’d seen Durin walking from, his gaze catching on a dark-haired man in a gray-striped djellaba, who looked in their direction as he walked past. He met up with another man in similar garb, and both continued on, never looking back. Though neither had done anything out of the ordinary, the first man’s casual glance, then immediate disinterest, bothered Sam. “What about those two?” he asked Durin.
“Where?”
“Near the stall selling mint tea.” Sam pointed, but by the time Durin focused in the right area, both men were lost in the crowd.
“Probably nothing. I’ll keep an eye out,” Durin said. “So what is it you’re here for?”
“Zakaria tells me you might be willing to escort us out to the site?”
“In the Atlas Mountains, nothing is easy to get to. I can at least take you to where I last saw them. I had to leave early. My sister’s been ill, and I had made plans to be with her.”
“How long do you think it’ll take to get where Brand and Karl thought the plane might be?” Sam asked.
“One, maybe two days. A deep gorge to get across, and steep terrain on the other side of it.”