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“Durin took their friend Zakaria hostage. I have him upstairs,” Gere said. “Durin accused him of going to the plane and getting the bag, but Zaharia told me he didn’t have it. The Fargos, either.” Realizing all this did was prove Rolfe’s point that Durin had played them for fools, he added, “I did, however, tell the Fargos if they wanted to see Zakaria again, bring the courier bag to us.”
“Wait here,” Rolfe said. He walked up the stairs. Gere heard the walls shake from whatever Rolfe was doing up there. Gere worried about the safety of anyone getting in the man’s way—including himself, he thought, seeing the look in Rolfe’s eyes as he stormed down the stairs, gun in hand.
“This is your fault,” Rolfe said, then shot him in the thigh, the gunshot echoing in the confines of the room.
He fell to the floor, crying out, his ears ringing.
Rolfe narrowed his gaze. “If you weren’t my nephew, I’d kill you. I still may.” He strode to the door and opened it. “When your hostage regains consciousness, see if you can’t get Durin’s address out of him. If not, you better hope the Fargos find this courier bag and bring
it to you.”
13
While Sam drove, Remi read the logbook to them, ending with, “Casablanca, January nineteen forty-six. No cargo. Very odd . . .”
Sam checked his rearview mirror, then glanced over at Remi. “What is?”
“Those were the last entries. Didn’t the plane go down six months after that date? Or did I misunderstand?”
“You’re right,” Karl said. “At least that’s the way we heard it.”
“Then why no entry?” she asked.
“Good question. Karl and Brand can take the book and talk to Selma about it,” Sam said as his phone rang.
It was Ruben Haywood, a case officer for the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, returning Sam’s call. They’d met after Sam was recruited by DARPA and attended the CIA’s Camp Perry training facility during covert operative school.
The two had clicked during the six weeks of intense training in weapons, fighting, and survival skills. They’d been fast friends ever since, never mind that Rube was the closest thing they had to a concierge international law enforcement connection. “Where are you now?” Rube asked.
“Driving back to Marrakesh,” Sam replied. “We’re heading to the hotel where Karl and Brand’s uncle is waiting. They’re here with us. On speakerphone, by the way.”
“Okay. I’ll get in touch with one of my contacts out there and start a quiet investigation into the shooting. If we’re lucky, we’ll find something in the background on the dead guy that’ll help lead to the kidnappers. Does Zakaria have any family in the area?”
Sam glanced at the brothers in his rearview mirror.
“A cousin,” Brand said. “Lina.”
“You catch that?” Sam asked.
“Got it,” Rube said. “What about talking to her in the morning? See if she knows anything that’ll help?”
“We’ll do that.”
“In the meantime, try to get some sleep. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”
“Likewise,” Sam said.
—
THE NEXT MORNING, Sam, Remi, Karl, and Brand drove straight to the riad where Zakaria had been staying with his cousin. They got out of the car, Karl staring at the salmon-colored walls of the three-story home. He turned to Sam. “What are we supposed to say? Lina’s going to know something’s wrong the moment she realizes he’s not here with us.”
If Zakaria’s cousin was overcome with worry, chances were that she’d be too emotional to give them the information they needed. “Let’s take it slow. See what, if anything, she knows.”
They walked up to the blue keyhole-shaped door, and Sam knocked.
The man who answered the door spoke only Arabic, but he recognized Karl and Brand and stepped aside to let them in. Like many of the grand houses in the area, the residence was built around a wide courtyard, this one paved with blue and white tiles in a beautiful mosaic pattern and shaded by palms. In its center, a fountain bubbled. An open arcade hall surrounded the courtyard, each arch framing a door or window that led into the house.
Sam thanked him, then said, “Is Lina home? We need to speak to her.”