Chapter 22 #2
In December then. Three, almost four, months ago.
Noah pressed the money into the boy’s sweaty palm, then stood and patted his head. “You must trust your sheikh. Do not speak to anyone else.”
The boy looked away, face filled with shame.
Noah left him there and headed back out onto the road with urgency heating his blood.
Kit and Alice had been here. And Prescott didn’t know. If he had, Prescott would have come looking.
Then who?
Who was Sharif al-Rashid? Could he possibly belong to Prescott too? Somehow Noah doubted Prescott kept highborn Islamic nobles in his pocket.
And if the sheikh had hidden Alice and Kit from the sharif, then it also meant al-Rashid had been a threat to them. No friend of Prescott’s, by extension.
He’d barely left the village when the loud roar of a motorcar’s engine caught his attention. The driver was a lower ranked military fellow from Khirbet Qeiyafa that Noah recognized. And the passenger … Hower.
The motorcar pulled off to the side of the road just behind him. “Benson?” Hower called, without any regard for who might be watching or hear.
Either he was reckless about Noah maintaining his alias or he simply didn’t care.
Noah restrained a sigh and went over to the car.
“Get in.” Hower held the door open.
Arguing would be pointless and attract more attention. He did as Hower said instead and settled into the warm backseat, which smelled of baked leather and motor oil. The driver started back up again, and Hower set an arm around the seat back, turning to face Noah.
“Enjoy your afternoon of leave?” he asked with a raised brow.
“I didn’t take leave.” Noah rested against the seat, stretching his legs out. “I was following a lead.”
“A lead about what?”
He didn’t dare mention Kit and Alice to Hower. “The Germans in the area.”
Hower frowned, his voice carrying loudly over the noise from the motorcar and the rush of the wind from the open windows. “That’s what you’re supposed to be doing at the dig site.”
“I found a lead elsewhere,” Noah replied coolly. “It will all be in my report.”
“Perhaps you’ve been out of the service for too long, Benson, but that’s not how we handle our affairs here. You ask permission to investigate—not tell me after the fact. I’m your superior officer, not a colleague waiting to collaborate with you.”
Noah gave him a long stare without answering. He hadn’t been able to make sense of Hower’s role in all this. He worked for MI5 under Knight, but why did Prescott Federline want him here?
“Why were you watching the sheikh’s house? And following that boy?” Hower pressed.
He offered only the information that Hower could find out easily on his own. “The sheikh is a local pro-Arab nationalist. A man of influence who is known to be connected to other Arab nationalists. Surely, he would be a good place to start looking for whispers of the Germans.”
“And a good way to expose your work here,” Hower countered with annoyance.
When it came to people he didn’t trust, he’d always found that a mix of minor lies with major truths served him the best in dealing with them.
“The sheikh has been quietly purchasing arms,” Noah said with a bored glance.
Fahad had told Noah that, but Noah didn’t need to tell Hower where he’d gained that piece for information.
“That was easy enough for me to learn without giving myself away, Hower. And the boy is a good target to use as an informant. I made more progress trying to investigate this sheikh than I made at the dig site the last week.”
Hower’s eyes narrowed. “That’s impressive.
You certainly are everything they promise, aren’t you, Benson?
Resourceful. Arrogant. Entirely no regard for authority.
Tomorrow I’ll be sending you to Port Said to board a ship for England.
You’ve compromised our mission here—I intend to tell Knight to dismiss you directly. ”
Noah shifted his weight on the seat, trying to make sense of Hower’s line of reasoning.
It still felt odd, returning to a hierarchy that required him to ask for leave and inform of his whereabouts.
As if he’d gone back to his military days, before he’d risen in rank enough to have more freedom on his operations.
But, also, if Noah didn’t know any better, it felt as though he was being kept distracted here.
Hower could pretend that he wanted to offer Noah assistance, but Noah’s record and past work spoke for itself.
He could understand that Hower might not trust him, but Knight had been chasing him for years.
Would Knight really dismiss Noah for so little cause, based on Hower’s recommendation?
And why bring him out here in the first place?
Hower had been wasting Noah’s time on so-called espionage work that was far beneath Noah’s skill. And to threaten to dismiss him now for doing the job he’d been hired for? Either Hower was bluffing …
Or Hower doesn’t want me to actually find the Germans.
Maybe that’s the point.
Hower was a Blackwell operative. Planted by Prescott—ultimately more loyal to Blackwell than to the British.
Could Hower have been directed by Prescott to ensure Noah found nothing of use?
Something wasn’t adding up about Prescott’s efforts here—both to keep Noah from helping Jack and having Hower in control of Noah’s actions.
Noah couldn’t afford to go to Knight with what he’d learned of Hower’s loyalties, though …
the rot could go much further up the chain of command than Noah believed.
Noah had stupidly played into Hower’s hands back in France, and he was no closer to escaping from the web Hower had woven to entrap him.
Maybe it wasn’t about what he was supposed to find. Maybe it was about what he wasn’t supposed to help Jack uncover. Every hour he spent here, playing pretend in someone else’s game, widened the distance between him and the people he loved. And Hower knew that.
Noah cleared his throat. “Let me see if I have this correct. I tell you that I’ve made progress on the objective given to me—find out about German spies and assets in the region—and you threaten to dismiss me?”
“The manner of your work concerns me, Benson. I can’t have someone under my authority who has no regard for the rules.”
“Did you expect me to simply wait for a German spy to pop up his head at the dig site? The place is as bereft of interest to humanity as it was thousands of years ago. The archeologists there are too busy grasping at straws for biblical connections that may not exist—not waiting to make covert government deals under the desert sun. I heard of a lead and I moved on it, simple as that.”
Hower removed a handkerchief from his pocket, then mopped the sweat on his brow. “Yes, of course. Best to chase a lead before it goes cold, hmm? But you mustn’t forget protocol either.” He nodded at the driver.
The driver took a sharp U-turn, which threw Noah against the window in the backseat.
Dust kicked up from the tires as they spun, then the driver floored the engine, barreling back toward the village Noah had left moments before.
The reckless pace didn’t stop until the driver slammed to a stop in front of the boy’s house in the village.
Noah locked eyes with Hower, his heart racing.
No.
But Hower had already opened the door to the motorcar. Already started toward the boy’s house. A glance at the driver revealed the man held a pistol in his lap already. Noah didn’t doubt the man’s loyalty to Hower—or that the bullets in that gun would be meant for Noah if he stepped out of line.
To Noah’s horror, the boy opened the door to Hower’s knocking. His eyes went wide as Hower grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out toward the motorcar. From inside the house came a scream, then the boy’s terrified mother appeared at the doorway, clutching a young girl at her side.
Hower shoved the boy against the motorcar’s bonnet and pressed a gun to the back of his neck. “Tell me what you told him,” Hower gritted in Arabic through clenched teeth.
Noah tore out of the seat, hands extended up. “Don’t do this,” he said, keeping whatever calm he could muster. He walked slowly toward Hower. “The boy is innocent.” He swallowed, his chest tight.
By now, several of the villagers had exited their homes or stared from windows. Noah’s fingertips brushed up against the holster at his waist, but he didn’t dare draw his weapon yet. If he managed a shot at Hower, the driver’s response would follow, without question.
Hower leaned closer to the boy’s face. “Tell me what you told him.” His Arabic was heavy accented but clear enough that the boy understood.
Noah’s gaze locked with the boy’s, who appealed to him with wide, tearful eyes.
Then he looked back at Hower, his tone changing.
“If you hurt him, I will kill you, Hower. Maybe Knight didn’t explain to you who I was or the reason he wanted me—but make no mistake: I don’t flee from my enemies.
I bury them.” Then, more loudly, he added, “Even the ones that work for Prescott Federline.”
Hower whirled his head toward Noah, eyes furious.
“You think you’re so intelligent, don’t you, Benson?
That you can beat us at this? You haven’t begun to understand how many steps ahead of you we are.
You think Jack can find Alice and Kit without us?
The people loyal to us are everywhere. We made contingency plans long before he even left Kharga Oasis. Now tell me what this brat told you.”
What does that mean?
Was Jack being watched?
Or—worse still—had they planted someone with Jack, even despite Noah’s warnings to him? Maybe Jack hadn’t listened and gone to Roche or someone like him.
He had to find Jack and help him.
Noah’s heart rate slowed, his senses heightening as he locked in on Hower. The villagers would all memorize Noah’s face, unmask him to the sheikh or anyone else of importance in the area. The driver—loyal to Hower without question—had lifted his pistol, his hand curling around the handle.
And the boy, with tears falling down his cheeks and sizzling against the hot metal of the motorcar’s bonnet, who was begging for Noah to save him.
This is why children didn’t belong in a world of espionage and secrets. Why it was so dangerous to involve them in any way.
Noah should have known better.
And he wasn’t about to repeat any of the mistakes of his past. Allowing someone like Hower to come back and haunt him later would end badly. He’d learned that much with Stephen Fisher. He should have killed that son of a bitch long before he finally had.
When he spoke, his voice was calm. “If you’re so brilliantly ahead of the game, then why do you need the boy? Clearly you don’t know everything.”
“Enough of your games, Benson.” He straightened and hauled the boy up. “I’m going to question you both. Separately. And if your answers don’t line up—I’ll shoot the boy.” He started toward the house, the boy firmly in his grip.
A mistake.
Hower had turned his back on him, relying on the driver to threaten Noah.
“Like hell you will,” Noah snapped, drawing his gun at last. He fired a shot toward the driver first, then turned it toward Hower. He fired ruthlessly, carefully aiming to avoid the whimpering boy.
The boy’s mother screamed, diving out of the way, her arms going around her daughter.
Hower was dead before he hit the ground, a bloody heap of flesh and brain matter splattering against the dirt and walls to the house.
The boy was unharmed—though a distinctive patch on the ground below his feet made it clear that he’d wet himself with fear.
Noah said nothing to him, going instead toward the motorcar. He went to the driver’s side and grabbed the driver by the throat, then hauled him out of the car. The driver trembled, blood covering both hands from a wound in his chest, though he continued to weakly grip the barrel of his gun.
After tossing the man onto the ground, Noah kicked the gun from his hand and then knelt in front of him, setting his knee on the man’s chest.
The man rasped, blood seeping out of the corner of his mouth and from the bullet wound in his chest—he didn’t have long to live.
“Does the name Sharif al-Rashid mean anything to Blackwell?” Noah demanded in English, his chest heaving with the exertion of his movements. Sweat trickled down his brow.
The driver shook his head, the veins in his temples and forehead bulging. “P-please …”
“Tell me what you know.” Noah eased the weight of his knee against the man’s chest. The release of pressure allowed the man a strangled gasp, and Noah reached for his right arm. He pushed the man’s sleeve back, just enough to reveal the small triskelion Blackwell tattoo he’d been expecting.
The man’s eyes widened at Noah.
“You think your loyalties will save you? They won’t. I’m not the only one who knows all about Prescott Federline. Who do you think sent me to make certain Hower was doing his job?”
Noah drew back his own sleeve, his eyes narrowing at the dying man. Then Noah exposed the triskelion tattoo he’d asked Nasira to ink into his skin when he’d first arrived in Jerusalem. Fahad’s wife was a Bedouin and skilled in the art form. “Now tell me about al-Rashid.”
The man hesitated a moment longer, then whispered. “Al-Rashid … h-he wanted t-the throne … of I-iraq.”
The throne?
Noah furrowed his brow.
The man smiled, his gaze going hazy. His teeth were coated in his own blood. “Y-y-you’ve killed me …”
Noah returned the weight of his knee to the man’s chest. His eyes bulged, his face turning purple, lips blue.
Once the life had faded from his eyes, Noah stood and wiped his hands against his thobe, leaving bright streaks of blood. He flicked a gaze up, where a crowd had gathered, watching him.
“Burn the bodies,” he said in a flat voice, in Arabic. “Don’t leave a trace of them.”
Then he climbed into the motorcar and drove out of the village, the engine’s growl the only sound in his ears as a plume of dust swallowed the road behind him.