Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (4 page)

“Jannah?”

“Yes.”

“And you? You all are…”

“Your vestal virgins, for you to enjoy for eternity, your reward for a life of service to Allah.”

He gulped.

“Then I am…”

“Dead?”

He nodded.

“Yes, yes you are. But be not sad, for now you will have eternal joy.” She leaned forward and kissed him on his cheek. “With us.”

He blushed. It was his first kiss.

“Come!” she announced, waving to several girls. “Let us bathe you!”

Faisal blushed an even deeper red.

And smiled.

Andes Mountains, Peru

Present Day

Professor James Acton glanced over his shoulder as the distinctive laughter of the woman he loved fluttered over the dig site. He smiled as she tossed her head back, her auburn hair dangling over her shoulders and back, slightly blowing in the wind.
I’m a lucky man.
He had met Professor Laura Palmer of the University College of London, and Head of Archaeology at the British Museum, in London only a year before, and the bond created by those terrifying events had yet to break, and with it having been so long, he was certain they wouldn’t. He had never been serious with a woman before, his two decades of gallivanting across the globe preventing it, but now he had a kindred spirit to share in his life, a fellow archeologist. If someone had told him a year ago he’d now be madly in love with a millionaire archeologist, he’d have called them “daft” as Laura might say, her quirky British sayings slowly mixing in with his vernacular.

The honking of a horn brought work to a halt, students and professors alike, as the supply truck rounded the final bend into their now fairly large dig site, ancient Incan ruins giving up their secrets readily since the massacre last year.

Acton rounded the brass memorial to those who had died, donated by the new students on the dig, and held out his hand to Laura, who grasped it and squeezed.

“I hope there’s news!” she said.

“Leo isn’t exactly FedEx, babe, but you never know.” He gave her hand a squeeze, knowing how eager she was to get the package she was waiting for—government documents granting permission for a new dig in Egypt. The approvals had apparently come through, and all that remained was her signature, and the new dig would be a go.

Acton was of mixed feelings. He was delighted that a dig his partner had been working toward for years might finally come through, but it also meant they would be apart for the first time in months.

Leo, their new supply driver, their previous driver refusing to return to work after the murders, brought the truck to a skidding halt, a cloud of dust momentarily obscuring it as he jumped from the cab.

“Professor Palmer, I have your mail!” Leo waved a sheaf of envelopes over his head as he rushed toward them, fishing out one large envelope from the bunch. “Look here, from your college!”

Laura reached out and eagerly grabbed the large manila envelope, Acton taking the rest of the mail and handing it to one of the other students to sort. He looked over Laura’s shoulder as she pulled out the pages.

“This is it!” she said, smiling and planting a kiss on his cheek.

Acton felt a tightening in his chest.

“When do you leave?”

Laura scanned the pages.

“October.”

Oak Grove, Kentucky, Four Miles outside Fort Campbell

Cole stood near the cargo area of a black Humvee, his sunglasses revealing nothing to the two men who stood before him. His face was devoid of emotion, his hands clasped in front of him, his dark, tailored business suit neatly hid the shoulder holster containing a Glock 31 .357 SIG, as well as the Ruger LC9 9mm tucked into his belt behind his back. Two of his men unlatched the cargo area after patting down the duo he now stared at.

Pieces of shit.

Inside he was sneering at the ragheads standing before him. He fought the desire to beat the living shit out of them, then introduce two bullets to the back of their heads. His finger twitched, as if it had a mind of its own, as if it wanted to reach for his Glock and send these idiots to their seventy-two virgins.

Sorry, Mohammad, I’m going to send so many of these fuckers up there, you’ll run out of virgins.

His men hauled two large, wooden crates, painted in standard issue army green, halfway out of the truck. One pried open the cases, revealing dozens of M16A2 assault rifles, and hundreds of thirty round clips. The two men, who Cole knew damned well were al Qaeda, inched toward the truck.

“Hurry up, we haven’t got all day!” yelled Gabriel Atkins, one of his newer men in New Slate. Cole turned his head slightly, which was all Atkins needed to soften his tone. “These are fine M16A2s, taken straight off Fort Campbell.” He pulled one from the case, loaded a magazine, and tossed it to the nearest man who caught it easily, flipped the safety off, cocked the weapon and spun around, squeezing the trigger and chewing up a nearby concrete wall. The clip lasted less than ten seconds, the fully automatic weapon leaving deep scars in the concrete. The man ejected the clip and tossed the weapon back to Atkins.

“We will take them.”

He snapped his fingers at the other man who was carrying a black briefcase. He stepped toward Cole when Cole shook his head slightly. The man stopped, unsure where to go.

“Over here, Mow-haw-mad.” Atkins’ southern drawl massacred their sacred prophet’s name.
What do you expect when you name all of your sons after the same guy? You don’t see a whole lot of Jesus’ walking around America, do you?
He pointed at Calvin Brannick, a long term member of New Slate. “Show
him
the money.”

The man winced and turned to his partner who glared at Atkins, but nodded to the bag man to proceed. He placed the case on top of the crates, unlocked it and flipped open the lid.

Atkins whistled at the stacks of neatly bundled twenty dollar bills. Cole watched as Brannick inspected several bundles then did a quick count. He nodded at Cole and snapped the lid shut, taking the brief case and walking it over to him. Cole took the case, then Atkins and Brannick resealed the crates and removed them from the truck.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” said Atkins with a sneer.

Remind me not to take him along on one of these missions again.

Cole snapped his head, indicating the others should get in the vehicle, then stepped toward the man who was clearly in charge.

“We can get anything you may need. You have my number.”

“You can expect to hear from us soon,” said the man in perfect English, a hint of a Limey accent suggesting he may have been educated, or hell, born, in England.

Cole decided to take the plunge. “How’s your financing?”

This seemed to catch the man off guard, this a question you never asked, at least not on the first date.

There was a pause before he replied. “Why?”

This is it!

“I can get you something very special, for the right price.”

The man’s eyebrows furled toward his nose. “How special?”

“Russian. That makes things glow in the dark.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“It is.”
Now for the money shot.
“Fifty million, firm, half upfront, half on delivery, includes weapon and arming codes.”

The fact the man’s facial expression didn’t change at all confirmed Cole’s suspicion. Definitely al Qaeda, well-funded, probably from Saudis rich off our appetite for cheap oil.
Hey morons, if you turn us into an Islamic state trapped in the twelfth century, who’s going to buy your oil then?

“We will need proof.”

Cole reached into his pocket. The man’s partner stepped in front of his boss when the butt of Cole’s gun was revealed, but relaxed when his hand withdrew, holding an envelope. Cole held it out to the boss, who motioned to his subordinate to take the envelope. His shaky hand snatched the envelope from Cole then opened it, pulling out half a dozen photographs. He handed them to his boss, who flipped through them.

“This is American.”

“You know your ordinance,” smiled Cole. “Yes, lost during the Cold War in Soviet airspace, and recovered by a Russian soldier with not only a capitalist leaning, but an abundance of patience.”

The man tucked the pictures into his jacket pocket.

“We will be in touch.”

Inebolu Sokak Street, Istanbul, Turkey

“It is essential that we possess this weapon before anyone else.”

There were nods of agreement from the men sitting at the round table.

“Can we trust this report?”

Abdullah bin Saqr turned to the man at his left, Tarif, someone he trusted with his life, as he did with every man in the room. “Absolutely. It comes from one of our agents implanted deep within the CIA.”

“But he’s a convert!” exclaimed one man.

“My brothers, not all of us are blessed to have come to Islam at birth. Islam is a religion of peace, and we must trust our brothers, whether they were born of the prophet, peace be upon him, or discovered his teachings late in life.”

Grunts of agreement rounded the room, but Abdullah knew they weren’t all convinced—nobody would look him in the eye.

“You may not all trust in the source, but you must all agree that we cannot risk ignoring it.”

More grunts of agreement, this time the heads rising, making eye contact.

“If indeed there is a nuclear weapon on the black market, then we must be successful in purchasing it, before any of the enemies of Islam can use it to further their goals of corrupting the teachings of the Prophet, peace be upon him. Should we fail in the task before us, I fear the consequences of the calamity we may all face, Muslim and Christian.”

Bulgakov Hotel, Moscow

Trubitsin waited alone in the hotel room. Someone had held vigil every moment of every day since Anya was exchanged by the Americans in the most public spy swap in history. It was his turn to man the room. In reality, it was him most of the time. He was determined to be the first to see her. He closed his eyes and pictured her auburn hair draped across her naked shoulders, her head tossed back, her eyes squeezed shut as they had made love in the hot tub at the Grand Hyatt in New York City three years ago when he had hatched the final phase of the plan—the retrieval of the arming codes for the missile they had retrieved over twenty years before.

A soft knock on the door snapped him from his reverie.
Could it be?
The knock was far too soft for his gruff sergeant. He walked to the door and peered through the keyhole, and smiled. He opened the door and she said nothing, showing no emotion, as she walked in. He closed and latched the door behind her and turned to face her. She threw her purse and jacket on a nearby chair then spun around, revealing a smile as breathtaking as the day he had first seen her. She stepped toward him and slipped her arms around his waist, tilting her head back and closing her eyes.

“Oh, Dorogaya, how I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

He leaned down and kissed her soft, full lips, gently at first, then with a growing intensity, as a lust from three years of separation took over. He knew there was no love there, but there was something. An animal intensity of desire neither wanted to resist. Her finger nails scratched at his shirt, then she reached in front and feverishly unbuttoned it. That was his cue to return the favor, unbuttoning her blouse, then shrugging off his shirt as she let hers fall to the floor. She kicked off her red high heel shoes, unzipped the tight miniskirt and wiggled it to the floor as he reached for his belt buckle.

“Nuh ah,” she said, wagging her finger. She dropped to her knees, and seized his belt, tugging him toward her. She reached up and loosened the fly, then, with her teeth, opened it the rest of the way. “I see you still don’t wear underwear.”

He smiled down at her. “Not when I know I’m seeing you.”

A rap at the door made them both jump.

“Go away!” yelled Trubitsin.

“But, boss, it’s me!”

The voice of his sergeant was unmistakable.

“Go away!” yelled Trubitsin again.

“But, boss, I’ve got nowhere to go!”

Anya laughed and fell back on her haunches, staring up at Trubitsin. She slapped his pride and stood. “Put that thing away and let him in, there’s plenty of time for that later.”

Trubitsin stood there for a moment, debating what to do. Yakovski’s pounding on the door made up his mind. “Alright, stop making so much noise, you’ll wake everybody!” he yelled. He stuffed his waning member back in his pants, zipped up his fly and opened the door as Anya buttoned her blouse nonchalantly in front of the mirror.

Yakovski barged in. “Hey, what’s the idea?” Then he stopped as he took in the scene before him. “Oh…” He trailed off then smiled at Trubitsin. “Good thing I took my time, eh, boss?”

“Uh huh.”

“So, Anya, how long have you been here?”

“Five minutes.”

Yakovski gulped. “Oh.” He looked at Trubitsin and whispered, “Sorry, boss.”

Trubitsin shook his head, the sexual frustration still in control.

“Down to business, darling?” asked Anya, dragging him reluctantly back to reality.

Trubitsin nodded as he retrieved his shirt from the floor. “Da. You have it?”

Her Cheshire cat grin left no doubt. “Oh yes, my darling, I have it.”

“And how did you get it?”

“Oh, I don’t know if you want to know that.”

“I do!” chimed in his sergeant as he sat in one of the chairs and poured himself a glass of vodka, then holding the bottle up, asked Anya with his eyebrows if she wanted some. She nodded.

“Very well,” she said as she took the glass he poured her. “All you really need to know is he was a charming, shy boy, who worked in the Pentagon archives, who had a penchant for gambling, and the ladies. The rest was easy.”

“You mean
you
were easy,” grumbled Trubitsin.