“I still say we should have shot a few more holes in that rock slide about a mile downstream.” This from Greg Chaffee. He was their government minder. Alana suspected CIA but didn’t want to know if she was right. Chaffee had no academic or professional qualifications to be with them, so his opinion was generally ignored. At least he did his share of whatever job she set out for him, and he spoke Arabic like a native.
Emile Bumford was the fourth member of the little group. Bumford was an expert on the Ottoman Empire, with a particular focus on the Barbary States. He was a prissy lout, in Alana’s estimation. He refused to leave the camp set up near the Roman ruins, saying that his expertise wasn’t needed until they actually found something.
This was true, but back in Washington, D.C., when they had met Undersecretary Valero, he had boasted of vast field experience, saying he “loved the feel of dirt under his fingernails.” So far, he hadn’t lifted one of those manicured nails to do anything other than constantly straighten the safari jacket he wore as an affectation.
“Another one of your feelings?” Mike asked Chaffee. They shared a common interest in horse racing and trusted their guts with the ponies as much as the information they read in the racing forms.
“Can’t hurt.” Chaffee shrugged.
“Won’t help either,” Alana said a little harsher than she intended. She lowered herself to the ground in the truck’s shadow. “Sorry, that sounded worse than I wanted it to. But the cliffs are too tall and steep there. It wouldn’t have been possible to lead camels down to unload a ship.”
“Are we sure this is even the right old riverbed?” Mike asked. “You don’t find too many large caverns in sandstone. It’s too soft. The roof would collapse before erosion could make it large enough to hide a boat.”
Alana had thought the same thing. They should be looking for limestone, which is perfect for caverns because it was soft enough to erode but tough enough to withstand the aeons. The problem was they hadn’t found anything other than the sandstone and a few basalt outcroppings.
“The Charles Stewart letter was pretty clear as to the location of Al-Jama’s secret base,” she said. “Remember, Henry Lafayette stayed there for two years before the old pirate’s death. Satellite imagery shows this to be the only possible riverbed within a hundred miles of where Lafayette said they lived.”
“Hey, at least it’s on this side of the Libyan border,” Greg added. His blond hair and fair skin made him especially susceptible to the sun, so he wore long sleeves and a big straw hat. His shirts were always stained at the collar and under the arms and had to be washed out every night. “Despite the upcoming summit in Tripoli, I don’t think old Muammar Qaddafi would like us digging around in his backyard.”
Mike said, “My father worked the Libyan oil fields before Qaddafi nationalized them.” He was taller and leaner than Greg, hardened by a lifetime of working outdoors so the wrinkles around his blue eyes never vanished. His hands were callused like the bark of an oak tree, and the corner of his mouth bulged with a wad of tobacco the size of a golf ball. “He told me the Libyan people are about the nicest in the world.”
“People, yes. Government, not so much.” Alana took a swig from her canteen. It was as warm as bathwater. “Even with them hosting the peace thing, I don’t see them really changing their tune.” She looked at Greg Chaffee, asking pointedly, “Doesn’t the CIA believe they once sheltered Suleiman Al-Jama, the terrorist who took his name from the pirate we’re looking for?”
He didn’t rise to the bait. “What I read in the papers is that Al-Jama tried to enter the country but wasn’t allowed in.”
“We’ve been up and down this wash for weeks. There’s nothing here,” Mike said disgustedly. “This mission is a complete waste of time.”
“The nabobs in the know don’t seem to think so,” Alana answered, but with reservations.
She thought back to her meeting in Washington with Christie Valero. In the Foggy Bottom office with Undersecretary Valero had been one of the largest men Alana had ever seen. He had the unforgettable name of St. Julian Perlmutter, and he reminded her of Sydney Greenstreet, except while the old actor had always seemed sinister Perlmutter was the quintessential jovial fat man. His eyes were as bright blue as Alana’s were green. Valero was a trim, pretty blonde a few years older than Alana. The walls of her office were decorated with photographs of the places she’d been stationed in her twenty-year career, all in the Middle East.
She had risen from her desk when Alana had been shown into the room, but Perlmutter remained on the sofa and shook her hand sitting down.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” Christie said.
“It’s not every day I get an offer to meet with an Undersecretary.”
“They’re a dime a dozen in this town.” Perlmutter chuckled. “Turn on a light at a party and they scurry like cockroaches.”
“Another crack like that,” Christie said, “and I’ll have you black-listed from all the embassy dinners.”
“That’s hitting below the belt,” St. Julian said quickly, then laughed. “Actually, that’s hitting the belt line precisely.”
“Dr. Shepard—”
“Alana. Please.”
“Alana, we have a particularly interesting challenge that’s suited to your talents. A few weeks ago, St. Julian came across a letter written by an admiral named Charles Stewart in the 1820s. In it, he describes a rather incredible tale of survival by a sailor lost during the Barbary Coast War of 1803. His name was Henry Lafayette.”
Christie Valero outlined Lafayette’s role in the burning of the Philadelphia and how he was presumably lost at sea following the attack on the Saqr. St. Julian picked it up from there.
“Lafayette and Suleiman Al-Jama made it to shore, and Henry removed the pistol ball with his bare fingers and packed the wound with salt he scraped from rocks. The pirate captain was delirious for three days, but then his fever broke and he made a full recovery. Fortunately for them, Henry managed to gather rainwater to drink, and he was skilled at foraging for food along the shore.
“Now, you must understand that Al-Jama was a pirate not because of the financial reward. He did it because of his hate for the infidel. The man was the Osama bin Laden of his day.”
“Is this where Suleiman Al-Jama gets his name?” Alana asked, referencing the modern-day terrorist.
“Yes, it is.”
“I had no idea his name had a historical context.”
“He chose it very carefully. To many in the radicalized side of Islam, the original Al-Jama is a hero and a spiritual guide. Before turning to piracy he was an Imam. Most of his writings survive to this day, and are closely studied because they give so many justifications for attacking nonbelievers.”
“There was a painting done of him before his first sea voyage,” Undersecretary Valero said. “We often find pictures of it in places of honor whenever there’s a raid on a terrorist stronghold. He is an inspiration to terrorists throughout the Muslim world. To them, he’s the original jihadist, the first to take the fight to the West.”
Alana was confused, and said, “I’m sorry, but what does any of this have to do with me? I’m an archaeologist.”
“I’m getting to that,” St. Julian replied. His stomach grumbled, so he gave it an affectionate rub. “And I’ll make it brief.
“Now, Lafayette and Al-Jama couldn’t have been more different if one of them had been from Mars. But they shared a rather strange bond. You see, Henry had saved Suleiman’s life not once but twice. First by towing him to shore, then by nursing him back from the bullet wound. It was a debt the Muslim simply couldn’t ignore. Also, Henry, who was French Canadian, looked exactly like Al-Jama’s long-dead son.
“They were stranded in the desert at least a hundred miles from Tripoli. Suleiman knew that if he returned Henry there, the Bashaw would imprison him with the crew from the Philadelphia, or, worse, try him for burning the ship and execute him.