Corsair

Even as she said it, the parallels to the present struggle against terrorism sent a chill down her spine. Europe had spent the latter part of the twentieth century living under the constant threat of terrorism. There’d been bombings in nightclubs, kidnappings, assassinations, and hijackings all across the continent, with very little response from the authorities.

The United States had taken a similar route following the first attack on the World Trade Center. The government had treated it as a criminal act rather than what it truly was: the opening salvo in a war. The perpetrators had been duly arrested and sent to prison, and the matter was largely forgotten until 9/11.

Rather than ignore the truth for a second time, the government had responded to the 2001 attack by taking the fight back to any and all who supported terrorism in its many forms. Like it had chosen two hundred years earlier, America had proclaimed to the world that it would rather fight than live in fear.

Bumford said, “Even if I grant the possibility that Al-Jama had a change of heart and found ways to reconcile the differences between Islam and Christianity, there is the practical matter of finding his ship, the Saqr. It is simply impossible that a vessel has remained hidden in the desert for two centuries. It would either have been destroyed by the elements or looted by nomads. Trust me, there is nothing left to find.”

“For the sake of argument”—Linc cut in when he could tell Bumford’s pessimism was about to make Linda snap—“if it somehow survived, would you have any clue where it might be?”

“From the letter I read back in Washington, I do believe it must be on the dry riverbed to the south of us, but Alana, Mike, and Greg have scoured it completely. They stopped only when they came to a waterfall that when the river was flowing would have been impassable. There is no Barbary pirate ship hidden out there.”

“Was there any other clue in the letter? Something insignificant, even.”

“Henry Lafayette said it was hidden in a large cavern that was accessible only through the use of, and I quote here, ‘a clever device.’ Please don’t ask me what that means. Alana pestered me for weeks on end about it. The only other thing I have is a local legend that the ship is hidden beneath the black that burns.”

“The what?” Linda asked.

“The black that burns. The tale comes from the journal of Al-Jama’s second-in-command, Suleiman Karamanli. It survived because he happened to be the Bashaw of Tripoli’s nephew, so it was housed with the Royal Archives. What it means, I’m afraid, is beyond me. I am sorry.”

“So am I,” Linda muttered.

If a trained archaeologist like Alana Shepard couldn’t find Al-Jama’s ship after spending weeks using sophisticated equipment, there was little hope she and Mark and Linc would discover it in the remaining days before the peace conference.

Linda glanced at her watch. They had an hour to hike back to where they were going to rendezvous with Mark and the Pig. After reporting that they’d struck out with Bumford, she was going to tell Max their best course of action now was to prestage the Pig to Juan’s location in the hope that the Chairman had had better luck.

“Come on, Linc,” she said. “Dr. Bumford, thank you for your time. And I don’t think I need to remind you that we were never here.”

“Yes, of course,” the scholar said. “By the way, have you found any sign of the rest of my team?”

Linda bit back a barb about his concern for the others being an afterthought. “One of the men is dead. Either Greg Chaffee or Mike Duncan. Single gunshot to the head. The vultures didn’t leave enough to make an ID. We don’t know about the other two.”

“Dear God. Is it safe for me to remain here? Maybe I should return to the States.”

Linc grabbed her arm before she decked the Ottoman scholar. “Easy, girl. He ain’t worth it. Let’s go.”

The two of them slipped out the back of the tent and made their way across the quiet camp. Neither noticed the small figure of a boy who’d listened to the conversation by crouching at the side of the tent. He waited until the pair disappeared over a sand embankment before scampering away to find the Tunisian representative. Twenty minutes later, the information was passed on to a contact in Tripoli for a healthy sum of money, and a further forty minutes after that the turbines of an Mi-8 helicopter at a remote mountaintop training camp began to shriek.

EIGHTEEN

WHEN AMBASSADOR MOON CAUGHT HIS FIRST GLIMPSE OF the debris field from the cabin of an executive helicopter, it took all his self-control not to throw up on the lap of his companion, Foreign Minister Ali Ghami. The devastation was nothing less than total. The remains of the State Department plane were strung out for almost a mile, and other than a fifty-foot section of the cabin and the engines there didn’t appear to be any pieces larger than a suitcase.

“Allah, be merciful,” Ghami said. It was his first time at the site as well.