The Solomon Scroll

CHAPTER 32

Addison Rhoades leaned back in the comfortable lounge seat of Al-Bayati's private jet and closed his eyes. It had been a while since he'd taken one of the foil wrapped balls. His body hummed and vibrated, out of harmony with the steady pulse of the engines. He felt like a guitar string tuned too tight, ready to snap if plucked. He'd taken a tablet of morphine half an hour before. Now he waited for the drug to kick in and take the edge off the unpleasant sensations.

It was no use, he had to sit up and do something, distract himself. He reached down into his travel bag and took out a cleaning kit. He pulled a Glock GP27 from his shoulder holster and laid it on the coffee table in front of his seat. Along with the Walther PPK the Glock was his favorite pistol, compact and powerful. It was meant for up close and personal, where almost all gunfights with pistols took place. Unloaded it weighed less than 20 ounces. He field stripped the weapon and started to clean it.

The morphine kicked in and his body relaxed. Rhoades took a deep breath and felt his mood improve. The smell of gun oil and cleaner was familiar, the ritual soothing. He'd always liked guns. They were reliable if you took care of them, unlike people. With a good gun you knew what to expect.

They'd land in Yemen near the Saudi border within the hour. Al-Bayati's connections meant no problems with the authorities. Men loyal to Rhoades would be waiting with vehicles at the landing strip. From there it was a few hours overland to their objective in the Habala Valley.

The tomb of Solomon and Al-Bayati's lunatic dream of a magic ring.

Rhoades didn't care about a ring. He cared about gold. If the tomb was there, Al-Bayati would never leave it. Rhoades had made up his mind that it was time to move on. As soon as they found the gold he would kill Al-Bayati. Until they found it he needed him alive.

He finished cleaning the pistol, reassembled it and placed it back in the holster. He packed the cleaning kit away as the plane began its descent to the barren desert landscape below and an abandoned military airbase close to the Saudi border. Al-Bayati had no intention of flying into Saana and dealing with the Houthi rebels in control of the city. Ten minutes later they were on the ground. A cluster of vehicles waited on the side of the runway.

The sun beat down on Bayati as he stood on the cracked concrete at the foot of the airplane stairs. He wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief.

"Hot," he said. "I'd forgotten how hot this godforsaken place can be."

"With luck we won't be here long," Rhoades said. "Here comes our escort."

Three Land Rovers painted desert tan pulled up by the plane, followed by two Toyota pickup trucks with Russian Kord heavy machine guns mounted in the beds. A third truck was empty, backup for transporting whatever they might find.

The Kord 12.7 mm was a recent addition to Russian infantry armament, replacing the older NSV that had been the staple weapon for years. It featured a higher rate of fire than the NSV. An alloy barrel that increased accuracy and effectiveness up to about 2000 meters. It wasn't a good idea to be on the wrong end of one of them when it was in use.

Al-Bayati appreciated fine weapons. He looked at Rhoades.

"Kords. I'm impressed. You think we'll need them?"

"There's been a lot of rebel activity around here," Rhoades said. "I thought a little extra firepower wouldn't hurt. The men are all experienced and well armed. No one will bother us if they know what's good for them."

Al-Bayati grunted and heaved his bulk into one of the Land Rovers. Rhoades got into the back seat. He took out his GPS, already programmed with the location of the three pillars.

"We'll use the old crossing," he said to the driver. "The one abandoned by the British. You know the one I mean?"

"I know it. Rough road," the driver said.

His name was Jan Vorster. He was a fourth generation Afrikaner, a grizzled former policeman who'd gotten out of the Republic of South Africa when apartheid crumbled. His talents for violence had turned out to be useful in his new role as mercenary. It paid better, too. Rhoades had met him during an MI6 operation in Darfur. As far as he could tell Vorster was the ideal soldier for hire, a man without bothersome moral considerations or qualms of conscience about what might have to be done.

"Watch out for patrols," Rhoades said.

The six vehicles set out for Saudi Arabia.