Russell Blake - The Goddess Legacy

“Excellent. Will there be any problem withdrawing it in cash?”

“No. It was delivered in two suitcases. All euros, as requested.”

“Perfect. I trust you have it in a safe place?”

“I guard it with my life. There is no one so foolhardy as to attempt to steal from us, even in these difficult times. My oldest son watches it as we speak.”

“I am blessed to command such loyalty.”

“We would gladly lay down our lives for the cause.”

“Thankfully Allah has a different destiny in mind for you.”

“It is like a dream. To be so proximate to the avenging might of the will of the Prophet, peace be upon him.”

“Nothing can stand in our way. We will bring the sleeping dogs to their knees. Too long have our lands been used as pawns in their game. Too long have our people suffered at their hands while they go about their business like fat, spoiled children, blind to the damage they inflict. But all of that will change, and then we will have the upper hand.”

“I await the moment with every fiber of my being.”

“As do I, brother, as do I.”

They discussed the logistics of transporting the cash across the border. Razzaq was the leader of a particularly extreme sect of Islamic radicals who, in addition to buying whole cloth the most draconian interpretations of holy scripture, had developed a highly sophisticated funding network — contributions from mosques all over the eastern seaboard filtered through investment firms and, once pooled, were concentrated in offshore hedge funds, who laundered the money by investing in the unregulated over-the-counter derivatives market, where hundreds of trillions of notional value contracts traded hands, with no reporting required, completely outside of the safeguards of the banking system.

“It is laughable how the governments have clamped down on financial freedom in an effort to stop crime, when it’s well understood that real money operates completely outside of their banking system,” Razzaq observed, the theme a favorite of his. His cousin ran a fund that operated in the British Virgin Islands, and had engineered the mechanism which would soon allow Razzaq to become the most hated and feared figure in the world, and a hero to his fellow adherents.

He’d learned from watching ISIL that access to capital was the key to recruitment, and was one of a new breed of freedom fighter, as he thought of himself, educated in the American Ivy League university system, the son of prosperous parents. He was far more sophisticated than his predecessors and was equally at home discussing credit default swaps or oil futures as he was issuing scholarly and invariably militant interpretations of the Koran. Which made him extremely dangerous — or as he liked to say, a Renaissance man who understood his adversaries’ weaknesses well enough to exploit them for his own purposes. With a substantial war chest, there was no limit to what he could achieve, and his years subjecting himself to primitive conditions in Pakistan and Afghanistan would soon be over.

When Razzaq and Abdul Aziz had concluded their discussion, the older man led Abdul Aziz to the doors, which a servant had closed to keep out the dust that blew across the area from the nearby desert. Abdul Aziz embraced Razzaq, who returned the salutation in kind, and then watched the Toyota drive away, leaving the large courtyard empty except for the gunmen who protected him round the clock and several chickens frightened from the shade by the sound of the vehicle.

Tomorrow Razzaq would travel to Abdul Aziz’s humble abode to count the cash and confirm the amounts — some earmarked for the border guards, some for the customs officials, and the majority for his contact in India.

Allah indeed worked in mysterious ways, he thought as he watched the gate shut behind Abdul Aziz’s vehicle. Mysterious, and wondrous, for the patient man — and Razzaq had perfected the art of waiting.

But now, finally, the time was at hand.

The taxi let Drake, Allie, and Spencer off in a crowded downtown area packed with electronics shops and Internet cafés. They’d asked the driver where they could find the best deals on phones and computers, and the man had been unhesitating in his recommendation. Now, on a sidewalk teeming with humanity, the street clogged with rickshaws and bicycles, their near escape from the police seemed worlds away.

“That looks promising,” Allie said, pointing at a sign advertising “Finest Splendid Internet Coffee.”

“I hope they use purified water, or we’re going to be in trouble,” Spencer said.

“We’ve been okay so far,” Allie pointed out.

“You’ve been here, what, a dozen hours?”

“Have I mentioned I bore easily? Where’s this treasure I keep hearing about?” Allie fired back.

“Probably not a terrible spot to use as home base for a few hours,” Drake said, inspecting the interior of the café through the picture window. “I mean, it could be worse.”

“Nobody’s milking cobras or anything, you mean?” Spencer asked.

“I was more thinking that the equipment looks pretty new. Come on. Let’s get something to drink.”

They entered the shop, which consisted of a half dozen small circular metal tables in front and a rear area boasting a dozen computer stations, and took a seat. The air conditioning was thankfully set at arctic, and the cold air washed over them as they looked around the place. A young waitress dressed head to toe in black, her hair dyed blue, came up with laminated menus and tossed them on the table. “How’s it going?” she asked in perfect American English.

“Fine, I guess,” Drake said, obviously surprised.

“What’s your pleasure?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and staring holes through Spencer with a smirk.

“You have coffee?” he asked.

“We have anything you want,” she said, cocking a hip, her skinny jeans clinging to her like a second skin.

Allie cut in. “Do you use purified water?”

“Of course, although all the hot drinks are boiled, as well,” she said, still addressing Spencer.

“Well, then… three cups of coffee,” Spencer said.

“Do you like them dark or light?” she asked.

Spencer looked her up and down. “Depends. Can you bring some cream or milk on the side?”

“For you? Whatever you want,” she said, and sashayed away. Spencer’s eyes followed her across the room.

“Seems like you have a fan,” Allie said.

“Must be the makeup. Some girls like that kind of thing,” Drake said.

“Maybe she’s just flirty and bored,” Spencer said. “Not a lot to do all day, I’ll bet.”

“You going to help the poor thing out with that?” Allie asked innocently.

“We’re sort of busy trying to stay alive. Think I’ll focus on that.”

“Might make it all the sweeter — the danger element,” Allie mused.

Drake held his tongue.

“Why don’t we take another look at your images instead of discussing my romantic possibilities?” Spencer said with a smile. “Specifically, the dagger.”

Allie slid her phone from her pocket, selected the image of the blade, and zoomed in on the characters. “Looks like Sanskrit,” she said.

“Can you plug it into an online translation engine?” Drake asked.

“Should be able to. The problem is finding an input mechanism.” She offered a small pout. “I didn’t get the Sanskrit option on my gear.”

“I can’t take you people anywhere,” Spencer grumbled.

“Maybe one of the computers?” Drake suggested.

“We can ask Spencer’s new paramour when she gets done spitting in my cup,” Allie said.

“Only spitting?” Spencer asked, earning Allie’s glower for his trouble.