Rakitaki: A Jonas Quartermain Adventure Read online

  He watched in fascination for a few minutes before unusual activity caught his eye. In the darkened far corner of the second floor, a small man stood furtively. He wore a suit, not unlike the one Dylan had worn to Marqas. He looked like a weasel, made worse by his habit of keeping his hands near his chest and looking around constantly. At his side was a gorilla-like thug dressed in muscle shirt and slacks. Clubbers were approaching the small man, shaking his hand, then leaving. What looked like a kid ran up to the dealer, stood on his tip-toes and said something into the man’s ear. Then he ran off again.

  “Time to have some questions answered,” Jonas muttered to himself.

  He walked around the upper walkway to the small man. He was even shorter in person, about as tall as Elliott.

  “Hey, I’m uh, looking for something fun,” he said nervously. He glanced around them, but nobody was paying attention.

  “Yeah, I bet,” the man replied in thickly accented English.

  Emboldened, Jonas continued. “I’m looking for that new thing that’s going around.”

  “What new thing is that?” The man looked around the club. He appeared unconcerned. The bodyguard shifted, facing Jonas more directly.

  “Uh, that racki thing.” He racked his brain for the name of the drug. He swore he had heard it at some point.

  The man shook his head. “Raki is a Turkish drink. Go talk to the bartenders for that.” He waved Jonas off.

  “No, the uh, the powder one. Looks like bad coke.”

  The thug suddenly had Jonas’s collar in a firm grip, lifting him to his toes.

  “Cocaine is illegal,” said the weaselly man.

  “According to the government, so is alcohol, but you can see how well that works,” Jonas wheezed. “I’m still trying to have a good time.”

  The dealer eyed him critically. “Do you have money?”

  “Yeah,” Jonas said through his restricted windpipe. “How much will this get me?”

  Jonas dug in his pocket and pulled out all the cash he had on him. The dealer looked him over, then nodded to the bouncer. Jonas was put down, dusted off, then patted on the back.

  “You know, you seem enterprising. I’ll tell you what, you can take all my R. If you sell it in my club though, I’ll hear about it. And then I’ll have Bruno here,” he said as he hooked a thumb toward the gorilla, “break your legs. Clear?”

  “As crystal,” Jonas said as he corrected his shirt.

  “A pleasure doing business with you, sir.” The dealer took the wad of cash, then handed Jonas a blue backpack and walked toward the stairs and out of sight. The thug followed his charge silently.

  “Wait! I wanted to ask about…” Jonas trailed off. The man was gone. He hadn’t even asked the one question he needed to ask, which is where it came from. “I’m an idiot. I should have led with that. Now what?”

  He stood there dumbly with the bag in his hands. He opened it and looked inside, finding the entire bottom of the bag filled with small baggies of grayish powder. He quickly closed it up and looked around. Nobody paid him any mind as he turned and made his way across the second floor, down the stairs, and out of the club. As he stepped out of the alley and into the street, two men accosted him.

  “Cough!” The man had a thick moustache and dark skin. He wore a dark blue uniform, but Jonas couldn’t understand anything he said or the writing on his clothing.

  “What?”

  “Qaf,” the man repeated.

  “I don’t speak Arabic,” Jonas said in confusion.

  The other cop spoke up. “You come with us.”

  “What? Wait, what?” Jonas instinctually fought the men as they took his arms. He tried to pry himself free, keeping the bag away from the two strangers. One shoved Jonas against the wall with an arm to his throat, then flashed a badge.

  “You are under arrest.”

  They roughly hauled him down the alleyway to a waiting vehicle. It was battered, old, and didn’t look like a police cruiser to him. They forced him into the back seat, where the door handles had been removed. A piece of plexiglass had been installed to separate the front from the rear of the cab. Jonas thrashed around, trying to kick a window out.

  “Stop that or we charge you with more things,” said the English-speaking cop. Jonas sat in sullen silence until they arrived at the police station.

  Three grueling hours later, Jonas paced a small, dank cell. It reeked of old alcohol, stale sweat, and other, less pleasant odors. He paced the confined space with his hands up on his head, an old habit he had picked up from his father. They had very roughly patted him down before stripping him and performing a deeper search. He still ached from their treatment. Panic had set in, especially after he had been denied a phone call.

  “Hey! Come on, that stuff wasn’t mine!”

  The nearest guard threw a half-rotten tomato at the cell. It splattered across the bars, soaking Jonas in fermented juice. He cried out in disgust and stepped further into the small space. He was thankful he was alone in the cell. He took the four measured paces from front to back time and again. Sun shone in through the high narrow window.

  He sat on the cot. It was somehow even worse than the one he slept on at the dig site. It occurred to him that all he had been doing the past several days was either working robotically or sleeping. He felt like sleeping, escaping from the situation he had found himself in.

  He figured out, too late, the kid had been a lookout. The dealer had escaped the police sting by foisting the Rakitaki on him. Probably took a huge loss, but walked away with thirty American dollars. He knew the cops couldn’t identify the drug, they just happened to catch him with the dealer’s bag. Jonas berated himself over and over again for being so stupid. His face ached with fatigue. His eyes kept drifting to the awful cot. Despair overcame him. He sat on the edge of the cot and put his head in his hands. He’d heard horror stories of Americans disappearing into foreign prison systems and never coming out.

  “Please, I don’t want to die in here,” Jonas whispered to the air.

  “You won’t have to,” said a strong, American voice. Jonas looked at the door to the cell. Davion Jenkins stood there. He wore a black-on-black suit as usual.

  Jonas did a doubletake. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m getting you out,” Davion replied. “Seems there was some sort of mix-up. Eye-witness accounts at the club say the true culprit shoved the bag in your hands before running off when you were apprehended. Turns out, those drugs really aren’t yours.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling them! But… the drug dealer—” he faltered.

  “Is being sought out right now,” interrupted Davion. “I’m sure he will be found in due time. As for you, it’s time to get out of here.”

  “Why are you here though? I mean, here to release me.” Jonas waved back and forth between them. “We barely know each other.”

  “That’s simple. You have been instrumental at the dig site, in the discoveries there.”

  “I don’t think that’s true. I haven’t done much.” Jonas shook his head miserably. He still looked up at Davion through the bars of the cell.

  “You might think that, but I have word you have proven a very valuable member of your team. Hell, I watched you in action. You did a great job keeping everything in order. Now, let’s get out of here.”

  Jonas stayed where he sat. Davion showing up bothered him, just as his previous appearance had. Sure, he had found the burial chamber, but the team eventually would have figured it out.

  “Would you rather stay here?” Davion still looked patient, impassive.

  “No!” Jonas shot up. “No, I’ll go.”

  The cell door opened, and he followed the larger man out of the building. The cops notably did not watch them leave.

  27

  Outside the police station, a black Lincoln Town Car with limo-dark windows idled. It looked pristine, a stark comparison to every other vehicle in Cairo. Davion opened the rear passenger side door, usher
ing him in. After a small hesitation, he sat in the rear seat.

  The interior of the car was dark and cool. Jonas’ bag was inside, along with Calhoun in the other seat. The professor looked tired, more worn down than any other point in Jonas’ memory. His skin looked sallow and gray. When he met his Professor’s eyes, the man just shook his head sadly. Davion closed the door then moved around the car and took the driver seat. A moment later the engine rumbled to life and they entered traffic. Something about the car kept others far away. It was the smoothest ride Jonas had experienced in Egypt.

  He looked at Calhoun and asked “Professor, what are you doing here?”

  “Mister Jenkins called and informed me you had been arrested. He worked some magic for us. More specifically, for you. You owe him your thanks,” Calhoun said gruffly.

  “Magic? What are you talking about?”

  He shook his head, disappointed. “You’re going home, Jonas.”

  “What? No! I can’t go, there’s still so much to do at the dig site!”

  He looked at Jonas. His voice took on a harder edge. “Paperwork and busywork that clearly bores you. Enough to get arrested with a bag of drugs they’d put you away for life for.”

  “It wasn’t mine,” Jonas said lamely.

  “Save it, Quartermain. I thought better of you. As it stands, be thankful we’re sending you home under the guise of an illness.” He sighed. “You’re not being deported, at least not officially.”

  “That can’t be!” Jonas’ hands were clenched and he hit them on the seat.

  “It’s true,” said Davion. “I did what I could for you. Be thankful there won’t be anything done about it, legally speaking.”

  “Dammit,” Jonas swore. They rode in silence until the car pulled up at the airport. Davion got out with Jonas, but Calhoun remained in the car.

  “Just six more days, Quartermain. Just six,” Calhoun said through the open door. He held Jonas’ bag out.

  Jonas didn’t reply. He didn’t throw a fit, or scream, or cry. He just accepted the bag and closed the door. Davion walked with him into the terminal, retrieved his ticket from the counter, and walked to the gate.

  They stared at the gathered people for a moment before Davion turned to him. “You hungry, kid?”

  “I’m not a kid, I’m 20,” Jonas replied sullenly.

  “Fine, are you hungry, old man?”

  The little nonsensical jab got through the gathering layer of doubt and shame. Jonas cracked a half smile.

  “Yeah, I think I could do with a bite to eat.” He took a deep breath to calm himself. “What’s good here?”

  “Nothing, this is an airport,” Davion said with a laugh. “Still, it’ll be edible. Ever had shawarma?”

  Jonas nodded, mouth already drooling at the thought of the meal. They walked to a cart in the middle of the walkway. A large grill had two spits rotating above it, one with chicken and the other with lamb. Davion showed two fingers and pointed at the lamb. The man immediately set to shaving chunks off the meat. Jonas watched in fascination as the man prepared a piece of pita bread on foil. He placed chopped tomatoes, onion, cilantro, cucumber, and bell pepper on the bread, then topped it with the meat and sauce. The smell was heavenly. Davion peeled a bill off his billfold and placed it on the cart in exchange. The man nodded and said something in Arabic. Davion replied, then took their food.

  “Come on, we have some time before the flight.”

  “You can speak Arabic?”

  “You’ve seen me speak it a few times now. What do you think?”

  Jonas followed the big man over to an uncomfortable seat, then tucked into his food. It still surprised him how it exploded with flavor in his mouth.

  “I mean, I get it, that was kind of a dumb question. I just haven’t met any Americans that speak Arabic before,” Jonas said with his mouth full.

  “Nic, uh, Professor Calhoun, also speaks Arabic. We’ve both spent a significant amount of time here.”

  Jonas nodded and took another bite. “So good,” he mumbled.

  “Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to talk with your mouth full?” Davion chided with a grin.

  Jonas covered his mouth and nodded sheepishly. They ate in silence. They sat back when they finished the food.

  Jonas closed his eyes and asked “Can I ever come back?”

  Davion thought it over before responding. “Maybe. Wouldn’t be a good idea for the next few months at least. Cops tend to remember busting someone with a backpack full of drugs.”

  “Yeah, that sounds true enough.” Jonas hung his head in shame.

  The larger man patted him on the back to reassure him. “Don’t worry, there’s still plenty of work to do at home. I hear you’re good with hieroglyphics. You can translate everything for your team.”

  He looked up at the large man. “From America? How?”

  “We’ll have the pictures shipped to you at the University.”

  “Thanks,” he said quietly. He wasn’t looking forward to the repercussions of his foolhardy move. He hadn’t learned anything of value, except how much a full body search hurt.

  Before long, the speaker overhead crackled to life and began announcing the boarding process for his flight.

  ”Im Namen der Lufthansa begrüßen wir alle Passagiere der ersten Klasse an Bord des Fluges LH581 von Kairo nach Frankfurt.“

  The young blonde woman at the counter repeated in English a moment later.

  “On behalf of Lufthansa, we wish to welcome first-class members to board flight LH581 from Cairo to Frankfurt. Please form an orderly line.”

  “I suppose this is where I leave you,” Davion said.

  “Hey, Davion?” Jonas asked as he stood.

  “Yeah, old man?”

  Jonas chuckled before continuing. “Thanks. I know it was a corporate thing on your part, but you at least treated me well.”

  Davion nodded. “Just keep an open mind in the future.” He held out a hand to shake.

  Jonas shook the proffered hand. “What does that mean?”

  “I might have something for you in the future—”

  “All other passengers are now welcome to board,” said the young woman with the German accent.

  “Crap, that’s me. Thanks again, Davion.”

  He waved, watching until Jonas was on the jetway to the plane. He glanced around the boarding area, then walked back to the waiting vehicle.

  Jonas took his seat, remarkably good for how late the ticket had been purchased. It was a large plane, seven seats wide. Three sat in the middle with only two on the outside. He checked his ticket, happy to see a single-digit number. When he arrived at row seven, he looked at the seats. They weren’t as big as first class, but he would be comfortable.

  He pulled the little care-pack out of the arm rest. It had, among other items, socks and a sleep mask. He wondered why they gave those items out for a six-hour flight, then gave up and tore the plastic open. Thankful he had taken a shower before going to the club, he stripped his shoes off and put on the new socks over his own. Then he unfolded the blanket and tried to get comfortable.

  A voice came over the intercom, presumably the captain’s. “Flugbegleiter, bitte für den Start sichern.”

  Jonas wondered what the words meant. Then he heard words that he did recognize, faint and distorted by the craft.

  “Wait,” shouted a familiar voice.

  “Bitte sichern Sie die Tür,” the captain said.

  “WAIT!”

  Jonas knew that voice.

  “Hold the door,” she shouted again. Suddenly, a small, gorgeous brunette appeared at the front of the airplane. She put her hands on her knees and took great heaving breaths. He was transfixed. “Thanks,” she said.

  “Lily?” He asked, incredulous.

  She shot her head up and looked at him.

  “Jonas?!”

  She checked the ticket clutched in her hand then looked at him. She walked over, double-checked the ticket against the row on the overhead
bin. Then she looked down, and as casually as she could, spoke to him.

  “What’s up, neighbor?”

  He burst out laughing, nearly drowning out the flight attendant giving instructions at the front. She shuffled past him to the window seat, ignoring the glare from the flight staff. Lily waved at the woman in a friendly manner. Instead of returning the gesture, she continued instructing and pointedly ignored the reunited friends.

  “What are you doing here?” He asked her.

  “I could ask the same of you!” She sounded happy, if out of breath.

  “I was deported from Egypt,” he said.

  She inhaled through her teeth. “Damn, that’s something else.”

  He buckled his belt, familiar with the process. “Now it’s your turn. Why are you on this flight?”

  She sighed. “Family emergency. My father had some heart pains, and now I have to go home, just in case.” She practically swore the last few words. The vitriol was evident in her comment.

  “Rough home life?” He asked drolly.

  “If by rough you mean a new car every year since I was fourteen, then yes. Private tutors for every subject under the sun. Constant supervision…” she trailed off.

  “What a brutal life,” he empathized. She looked at him, then clamped her mouth shut. “No, really, that sounds like it was tough to deal with.”

  She looked him over approvingly. “I’m sure high school was easy for you.”

  “What?” He laughed. “No.”

  “I mean, you looked like this before, right? Slim, good muscle tone, and I know you’re intelligent.”

  “Slim?” He asked in confusion. He looked down at himself. His clothes were clean, which was not what he was used to. Then he started to actually look at himself. His arms were chiseled. He lifted his shirt, which Lily took a sharp intake of breath at, and noticed that for the first time in years, he didn’t have a gut. It wasn’t a six-pack, but it was as close to flat as he had been since he was a young teenager. “Huh, I guess all that work and stress did something good for me.”

  “You really didn’t look like this before? I swear you did on the flight over.”

  He shook his head. “No, I got picked on a lot for being fat.”