“What about a helicopter?” Remi asked.
“No place to land. Trust me. We looked at every possibility. The best-case scenario is to drive out as far as we can, then go the rest of the way on foot. I have to warn you, though. It’s dangerous. A lot of bandits roam the upper desert. I don’t think it’s a good idea—”
“How soon can we leave?” Sam asked.
“First thing in the morning, if you have a car with four-wheel drive. You can follow me. Once there, I can point you in the right direction. Beyond that, you’re on your own. If I didn’t have to get back to my sister, I’d take you all the way.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll make it work.”
“Good. You’re staying at the same hotel as Brand and Karl?”
“We are.”
“I’ll meet you there before sunrise.” He looked at Zakaria. “How about you?”
“I’ll be there.”
Durin eyed Sam. “You realize the weather’s taking a turn for the worse? Series of storms lined up.”
“All the more reason.” Sam had checked the weather forecast as they were flying in. Their only window of opportunity was early tomorrow or late the next day, and he wasn’t about to wait. “See you in the morning.”
After he left, Zakaria said, “I’ll walk you to the gate.” They started in that direction, weaving their way through the crowd. “Keep your hands close, Mrs. Fargo. The ladies who do henna tattoos are sometimes aggressive.”
“So we found out,” she said.
There was a commotion behind them, someone yelling, and then a loud crash. They turned to see a cart knocked over, small trinkets and cheap jewelry spilling to the ground, the vendor, shaking his fist, shouting. Someone pushed Remi and she stumbled.
“Sam! My purse!”
He glanced back just as a man raced off with Remi’s handbag tucked beneath his arm.
5
Stay with Zakaria,” Sam called, taking off after the thief. He pushed through a group of tourists posing for pictures with a tame monkey, then past a stall selling fresh orange juice.
The thief darted into a narrow alley, barreling over anyone who got in his way. Soon, the colorful souk and eager vendors hawking their wares gave way to a maze of dark doorways and high walls, the noise from the crowded marketplace fading in the distance. The only sounds came from the thief’s and Sam’s footsteps, echoing through the tunnel-like streets.
The man glanced behind him, saw Sam gaining, and quickened his pace. He shot around a corner, jumping over a wooden crate filled with empty burlap sacks. The alley twisted to the left, and he pulled an empty garbage can out, swinging it around at Sam, who was midair over the crate. Sam dodged the can as he landed, hearing it rattle down the alley behind him. When he looked back, the thief was gone. Although he could hear the sound of running, the alley was empty. There was only one direction the thief could have gone, but any number of doorways.
Sam stopped and listened, trying to hear the footsteps, when someone laughed from a window above. He looked up, saw a boy and a girl, grade school age, looking down at him, their dark eyes alight with curiosity and amusement. One of them pointed, not down the alley but at an arched doorway about ten feet away. Sam walked up to it, and the boy nodded. Sam returned the nod.
The heavy wooden door hung on iron hinges, and when he pushed, it swung open, not to a house but to another alley. The thief, his chest heaving from exhaustion, was about twenty yards ahead, fishing through Remi’s purse, pulling out the wallet and opening it. Recognition hit Sam as he realized this was one of the two men he’d seen following Durin. When the guy looked up and saw Sam, he dropped the purse, kept the wallet, and took off again.
Sam closed the distance, was nearly on him, when the thief suddenly turned and threw the wallet at Sam. The man stumbled as he turned back, and Sam pounced, slamming him to the ground. They rolled together, the thief trying to twist free. Sam held tight, using their momentum to swing the guy around, until Sam was back on top, vaguely aware that someone was running toward them. Sam drove his fist into the man’s face. The thief lay there motionless, his stunned expression moving from Sam to someone just behind them. Sam grabbed the guy’s shoulders, rolling away just as a club came crashing down, missing Sam and striking the ground.
Sam shoved the thief to the side just as his partner kicked at Sam’s ribs. The blow knocked the breath from his lungs. Sam saw the man’s boot coming at him again. He spun around, scissor-kicked, sweeping the guy’s feet from beneath him. His attacker fell to the ground.
The first thief scrambled to his knees, lunging. Sam caught the glint of a knife arcing toward him. He blocked the blow. The thief swung again. Sam caught his arm, gripped the knife hand, twisting the weapon from his grasp. It clattered to the cobblestones as Sam swung, slamming his fist into the man’s eye socket.
“Police!” someone shouted from the gate.
The thief dragged his partner to his feet, pulling him away.
They raced through the alley, and Sam jumped up, about to give chase, when he saw Remi and Zakaria coming through the gate.
No police. Regardless, their ruse worked. The thieves were gone.
Remi picked up her purse, then her wallet.
“Everything there?” Sam asked.
“Seems to be.” She looked at Sam, her gaze sweeping over him from head to toe. “You okay?”
“Fine.” Beyond the bruises likely to develop on his ribs and knees, his worst injury was a few scraped knuckles. “Had you given me a few more seconds, I might have won the round.”
“Close enough, Fargo. Or did you forget we have an early day tomorrow?”
“Good point,” he said, glancing down the street in the direction the thieves had fled. Tonight’s events seemed entirely too coincidental. Durin being followed, and then the distraction in the marketplace moments before Remi’s purse had been stolen. He examined the five-inch folding knife left behind by one of the thieves. Sharp, well-balanced, quality German carbon. Not the sort he’d expect a couple of Moroccan street thieves to be carrying. And, now that he thought about it, that was a pretty elaborate and deadly scheme to steal a purse.
Only one reason for all this that he could think of. Someone didn’t want them to get out to that plane.
6
Rolfe Wernher slid a knife around the wine bottle seal, pausing when someone knocked on the door. He set the knife on the counter and rested his hand on the Glock next to it. It didn’t matter that he was in his private suite of rooms on the fourth floor of his riad or that he had armed guards on each floor below should anyone breach the security of the first floor. In his business, preparation was always the key to staying alive.
“Come in,” he called out, picking up the gun, keeping it at his side.
Gere Stellhorn, his eye swollen and a bruise forming, walked in. “You wanted to know as soon as we returned.”
“I’ll be right with you.” Rolfe returned the gun to the counter, glancing out to the patio, where Tatiana Petrov waited. She either didn’t hear the knock or she wasn’t interested, her attention solely on the unparalleled view of the night lights below. Normally, he would’ve taken this meeting with Gere in his study on the second floor of his riad. But he wasn’t about to leave so important a guest as Tatiana by herself. And so he finished opening the wine, poured two glasses, then carried one of them out to her.
“Forgive me, Tatiana,” he said as he walked up.
A light breeze stirred at her long brown hair, which skimmed the back of her low-cut red dress, the fabric shimmering as she turned. Her opalescent blue eyes regarded him with mild curiosity.