He climbed through the opening. Inside the well once more, he turned to the light and pushed off the sandy bottom. Kicking hard, he swam to the surface. His head broke the surface and he took a deep breath of air again.
Sam placed his left foot in front and his right one behind. He used the oppositional force to step up so his torso rose above the water’s surface. Using his hands for balance, he placed additional weight on the balls of his feet and pushed downward.
His left leg held, but his right one slipped and he fell back into the water. The water made the well slippery to climb. He tried again and achieved the same result. On the fourth time he used his right hand to grip a curved stone in the wall of the well and pulled himself out of the water. He slowly kicked free some of the water on his feet and then commenced climbing again. It took around four to five minutes to reach the top of the well. Sam climbed out and saw Zara staring back at him.
“I found it!” he said, looking at her. He smiled. It was gloating and came naturally. “I told you it would be here.”
Zara stared at him, but said nothing. She blinked and her long dark lashes opened. In the afternoon light, her eyes appeared dark and unreadable. Behind him, Sam heard the distinctive loud click of a large magazine being slid rearward and secured into the mag well of an AK-47.
Sam didn’t bother to turn around. His eyes met Zara’s at once. They revealed the despondency of their fate in an instant.
She shrugged. “I’m sorry, Sam. They found us first.”
Sam took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. He figured it was a good sign they hadn’t killed him yet. He casually turned around to see all four riders aiming directly at the two of them. He raised his arms suppliantly and smiled. “I was wondering when you would finally catch up.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sam glanced at his own AK-47. It stood upright about five feet away, with the butt of the weapon sticking into the sand next to the well where he’d left it with the hope of protecting the weapon from the sand while he dived the well. Zara had told him, she predicted it would take at least another hour for the riders to catch up with them. Even so, he should have been better prepared. He should have been faster down the well and back up again. None of that mattered now — because he’d gotten it all wrong. It might just be the last mistake he would get to make.
His eyes darted back toward his attackers. They wore the indigo blue robes of the Tuareg nomads and all but their eyes were covered in protective cloth. One held an AK-47 pointed casually toward him, as though the rider knew it wasn’t going to be needed to persuade him to hand over the book. The other three carried Sterling submachine guns. All four appeared amateurish in the way they held their weapons. More like kids who’d recently been given toys than professionals. Even so, Kony 2012 showed just how well the AK-47 had been used to kill a lot of people by child soldiers throughout Africa. At a glance, the AK-47 looked clean and well oiled, while the other three weapons were old and poorly maintained.
Sam glanced at the Sterling submachine guns.
The bolt was open, with the working parts held to the rear of the weapon. Like other open-bolt weapons, the bolt goes forward when the trigger is pulled, feeding a round from the magazine into the chamber and firing it. Like any other self-loading design without an external power supply, the action is cycled by the energy of the shot, which sends the bolt back to the rear, ejecting the empty cartridge case and preparing for the next shot. It meant that it didn’t take much effort to fire and keep firing.
He noticed the bolts had helical grooves cut into the surface. The purpose being to remove dirt and fouling from the inside of the receiver to increase reliability in the Sahara where sand was abundant. Without exception, each groove appeared blocked with sand and the riders were ignorant or too lazy to dismantle and clean it. The weapons hadn’t been stripped and oiled in a very long time. If he got lucky, in a firefight, at least one of the weapons would probably jam and misfire — but three working weapons against none was still a very uneven fight.
Sam looked at his attackers. His hands remained in the air in supplication. “All right, now what?”
The rider with the AK-47 dismounted her camel. She spoke with the authority of one used to being obeyed. “Now, you hand over the book of Nostradamus.”
“What book?”
She smiled at him. “Cute. But I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time. You may not have noticed but we have an army following, and they’re not going to be quite as nice when they get here. Your friend has already told me she stole the book and you hid it for her down the well.”
Sam forced himself to smile. “So, if you know where it is, why don’t you go get it yourself?
“Because I have no intention of climbing down that well,” she said. “Instead, I’m counting on your kindness.”
“Kindness! You think General Ngige is going to show a great kindness to the people of the DRC?”
The woman in command laughed. “You still think General Ngige’s in control here, don’t you?”
Sam asked, “He isn’t?”
“No.”
Sam was genuinely surprised by the new information. “From what I’ve heard, he’s the head of the rebellion?”
“That’s because the world looks at the puppet and rarely at the puppet master.”
“Someone else is pulling the strings?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Someone who’s interested in starting the largest war to ever affect Africa and doesn’t wish to be found. Someone who wants the book of Nostradamus destroyed before the future becomes irreparable.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Sam said.
“Mr. Reilly, I don’t think you understand what’s at stake here. You are exposing the future to the greatest danger it’s ever seen.”
The use of his name shocked him. Up until that point, Sam had assumed the riders were nomads who had chosen to get rich fast off a bounty. They were hunting Zara Delacroix, but shouldn’t have had any idea who he was. “Who are you?”
“My name’s not important. I’m not important. I’m a Tuareg nomad. A wanderer and a nobody. I perform unique tasks throughout the harsh land of the Sahara. Today I am merely a messenger. And I’m here to tell you it’s time to change sides. The US government backed the wrong person and the future won’t tolerate it.”
Zara stared at her without saying a word.
“The future won’t tolerate it?” Sam asked. “I didn’t realize the future wanted anything.”
“That’s one of the many things you’ve recently gotten wrong. The future is set. It knows what should happen. Not what is easy, but what is necessary. My master knows what it wants. Nostradamus knew what it wanted and was too weak to obey its will. He chose to challenge the future and instead was killed by it.”
“The future killed Nostradamus?” Sam asked. “I thought he died in his bed after suffering with gout and poor mobility for years?”
“After making his journey into the unmapped and dangerous Sahara to bury his book, Nostradamus spent many months subsisting on shellfish along the North African coast until he was picked up by a European slave ship.”
Sam stared at her, unable to follow her train of thought. “And so?”
“Shellfish are rich in purines.”
“I’m sorry, I’m still not following you.”
“Purines break down into uric acid, which form into crystals that deposit in the joints and cause pain and inflammation.”
“And you think the future did this to stop Nostradamus from challenging its path?”
“No. Nostradamus had already made his attempt to change what will and must occur.”