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The darkest place in world is the one where you're not supposed to be, and we weren't supposed to be in Mahmoud's father's office.
But we were.
One of his guards -- Assad's guards, I mean -- was involuntarily sleeping outside the elevator on the floor above and another one snored right outside the door we'd just come through -- a door that, with luck, we'd be going out again in less than four hours.
Four hours. That's how much time we had to find out what Assad was up to. Four hours -- no more, no less. Not much time when you have to search an entire floor.
"Hey, what if everything's written in Arabic?" I asked Blake.
"It won't be."
"And what makes you so certain of that?" I asked him. He was leading us blindly through the rooms, to what the blueprints and a little palm greasing the day before told us would be Assad's personal office.
"It's an international company, headquartered in New York. He does business all over the world. English is the language of business. Besides -- I read and write Arabic," he said. That was a surprise. Guess you can know someone a long time and never really know them.
Blake stopped at a door, reached into his pocket and pulled out a lock pick. We were inside Assad's inner sanctum within seconds.
"Pretty fancy," I said.
"Thanks. OK, time to get to work. Eileen, turn on that desk light, will you? It won't be much light, but it'll help," he said. I turned the light on and we both blinked. We'd been in the dark so long we were starting to feel like moles.
He jimmied open all the file cabinets and we split up: I took the right side, he took the left. We were careful not to make a big mess. It wouldn't do to leave any evidence. We searched for over two hours before I found it.
"My God," I said. Blake materialized next to me.
"You have something?" I nodded and handed him the file.
He read rapidly, then looked up at me.
"My God," he said.
"That's my line," I said.
"Do you realize what this is?" Blake tapped the folder.
"Well, if I'm reading it right, that folder details something called "The Eleventh Plague." Sounds like a code name for an operation of some sort. Looks as though the goal is to heat things up in the Middle East."
Blake nodded "They're trying to start an all-out war and pin it on the most progressive country over here -- Madya. It doesn't say why or how. But it does say that they've been testing some new weapons."
"Testing -- how?"
He looked up from the folder. "Remember that Egypt Air flight that went nose down in the ocean a few years back? Killed a couple hundred people?"
"Sure. I don't think they ever found what caused it, did they?"
"Well, it's not a mystery now. They used the plane as a dry run for whatever they're up to."
"Dry run?"
"Yeah, it looks like they set off some kind of weapon with a chemical payload. It killed all the people on the plane, the plane took a nosedive and, well, the rest is history."
"Does it say what chemical they used?"
"No. Maybe there's something in another file...."
"Nice guys. What's next on their agenda?"
Blake thumbed through the file, quickly turning the pages.
"The tomb."
"Chandler's tomb? What about it?"
"I'm not sure. But something's going to happen there." He looked up. "Whatever it is, it can't be good. There's all kinds of notes about the size of the tomb and it's location."
"How can they know the size when it hasn't been opened yet?"
"Good question. Think Chandler's in on it?"
"I don't know," I said, although I didn't add what I was thinking -- that I hoped he wasn't. Of course, if he wasn't a bad guy, then that meant his life was probably in danger.
"I need to photograph the contents of this file. You keep going through the cabinet drawers and see what else you can turn up."
*********************
We did find some other things: an intense interest in a upcoming Middle Eastern summit involving world leaders from both sides of the globe and a cryptic list of places, dates and times -- some in the past, some in the future.
The terrorist -- Razzack -- his name also appeared several times.
"I think Razzack has something to do with the execution of these plans," Blake said.
"Well, du-uh," I said.
"Don't get smart on me. That's not what I mean. I'm saying it looks to me as though Assad is the guy developing the weaponry. I think he's bankrolling this operation and Razzack's working for him."
"What's Assad have to gain from all this?"
"The destruction of Madya and the overthrow of the current regime," Blake said.
"Yeah, but why would Assad want to see the sheik go down the commode? There has to be something we're not seeing. Some profit or, perhaps revenge," I said.
"Well, we aren't going to find out tonight. Let's put this stuff back and get out of here," Blake looked at his watch. "We've only got 15 minutes left."
*******************
We had just four minutes to go when we finished wrapping up the office, turned out the light and started for the door. We had to trip the security lock at four o'clock and only had a one minute window to do it in.
The system Assad employed had a pressure plate on both sides of the door that would electrocute anyone standing on it if the security system was breached at the wrong time. There was a scant sixty-second window when the system could be by-passed every four hours. We'd let ourselves in at midnight and had to get out at four, or we'd be there to greet the office staff when they came in at eight, an idea neither of us relished.
We were in position, waiting to make the break when we heard it -- someone on the other side of the door, preparing to open it. Blake hissed for me to run and hide, then he took off in the opposite direction.
I ran -- in the dark -- in an unfamiliar office, frantically looking for a place to conceal myself. I could hear the sound of the door opening and voices speaking low and in Arabic. I yanked open the nearest door out of desperation and jumped inside. It was a cleaning supply closet. Climbing up on top of some supply cabinets I reached up, above me and discovered another set of cabinets, bolted to the wall. There was a small gap between them and the suspended ceiling.
I've had a few too many slices of pepperoni pizza to fit comfortably in a space as small as that. But desperation can make a woman do some mighty peculiar things. Like a size 14 trying to get into a size 10 pair of pants, it was a very uncomfortable fit -- but then, so was a coffin. I sucked it in and crammed myself into that tiny little space and willed my heart to stop beating so loud. I was sure it was deafening.
Then I waited.
*************************
I had discovered that if I moved one of the ceiling tiles above my face just a little, I could hear what was going on in the rest of the office. I guess it was amplified by the air handling system or something. So I laid still and listened -- not that I understood anything being said -- they were still talking in Arabic.
It sounded as though there were three men and two of them were arguing. I heard angry voices, but still had no idea what the discussion was about. I caught the names "Assad" and "Razzack" and heard "Madya" and "Chandler" -- but that was all. While the two men were arguing, the third one was wandering around the office. I heard doors opening and closing and rustling sounds, like he was walking in and out of rooms.
He drew closer and closer, then the door opened and a light flipped on. I was dressed in black and hoped I blended in with the scenery. Never have I been as still as I as at that moment. Finally, the door closed, and the footsteps continued on down the hall. I let out the breath I'd been holding. That had been close! But my relief was premature.
He found Blake.
I heard him give a yell, then feet running, then all holy you-know-what broke loose. There was what sounded like a fight with the appropriate sound effects: crashes and the sounds of things falling. Then -- silence, heavy breathing, the sound of someone being slapped -- open-handed and hard. A moan, then two.
What was I supposed to do? Climb down and go to Blake's defense? How much good would I be able to do for him? Not much, I conceded. These guys were probably armed. And there was always a chance I could get Blake killed by showing up.
So I stayed where I was and listened -- guilt washing over me like a warm bath -- while they interrogated my partner, and none too gently, either.
"Give me your name and organization," a voice said. I recognized it as Assad's.
"Donald Duck and I'm a Boy Scout." That was Blake. There was a smacking sound.
"Now we try again. Who are you and what are you doing in here?"
"Looking for Mickey. Minnie's worried he's on another one of his weekend drunks..."
Smack!
"Try again, Donald, or my friend over here will break your nose and, perhaps if he is in a bad enough mood, your jaw, just for good measure. Of course, that would limit your usefulness to us. And then we would have to kill you. Now, your name, your organization and what you are doing here."
"I told you, my name is Donald and...."
Smack!
He groaned this time. Loud. I fought with myself. What should I do? Then Blake answered the question.
"Look, I'll tell you. Just get your goon off me...."
"Goon? You think I'm a goon? I'll show you exactly what I am!"
There was a loud smacking sound again. Then Assad's voice said, "Stop it Razzack. You'll kill him. I need to know who he is."
Razzack was here! Hmmm. It was getting interesting -- from my point of view, anyway. From Blake's point of view, it was probably pretty bleak.
"I'll talk. Just stop hitting me. My name is Blake. I'm a freelancer -- a hired gun. I was paid to break into your office."
"By whom?" It was Assad again.
"I don't know."
Smack!
"I'm telling you, I don't know. I was just told to break in and get some information."
"About?"
"Your business dealings." Blake was lying and I knew it.
"I don't believe that. I think you're a spy. Now tell me, little spy, did you come alone?" That was Assad.
"Search all you want."
"And you still say you don't know who is paying you?" Assad again.
"Scout's honor. If you'll untie me, I'll show you the secret handshake."
"Smack!" Blast that Blake. He's got to learn to keep his mouth shut.
Assad said something I couldn't understand to the other two, then turned back to Blake.
"My man here is going to take you to our headquarters..."
"I thought this was your headquarters," Blake broke in.
"No, you're going to Razzack's camp way out in the desert. And I have a surprise for you. I don't buy the hired gun story. Not at all. I think you're with WUSS."
"Never heard of them."
"Perhaps not. But if you're lying, I'll know. For you see, my fine-feathered friend, I just happen to have a WUSS operative on my payroll. Let's see if anyone recognizes you."
There was a long pause while both of us took in the implications of that statement. So Assad had some inside help. I knew -- and I'm sure Blake did, too -- that when the WUSS agent identified him, he'd be as good as dead. I was worried about him but -- not to be self-centered or anything -- I had problems of my own.
I heard them leave and the office grew quiet. I must have stayed in that one position for an extra thirty minutes, then I climbed down. They were gone and my watch said it was five in the morning. That meant I had three hours until the office staff arrived for the day. And when they did, I was cooked meat.
I was locked in the office of an international terrorist with no way out. My partner was being held prisoner by the same terrorist. There was a mole in WUSS and I didn't know who it was -- so I didn't know who I could trust within the organization. I had information that they were probably targeting a summit of world leaders and I knew for sure they were planning on doing something in connection with Chandler's opening of that tomb, which was scheduled for early that afternoon.
I was in deep trouble and hadn't the slightest idea how I'd get out of it.
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