The Gems of Tsingy De Bemaraha
THE GEMS OF TSINGY DE BEMARAHA
A THRILLER
ROGER WESTON
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Weston Publishing Enterprises
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
PROLOGUE
Sahara Desert
1826
Lying down in his tent, Gordon Laing drew the back of his lean hand across the sweat on his face, closing his eyes. He flicked his wrist, spraying the sand with sweat. Dust puffed out of his simple blue desert robe.
He dressed this way to blend in with the local people, but on Sundays he always wore English dress and read prayers to his three travel companions. To ensure that nobody could ever claim he was denying his religion out of cowardice or shame, Laing never hesitated to praise the Lord Jesus, despite the fact that this was a capital offense among the Mohammedans. Sundays always strengthened him even though he was surrounded by hatred, harassment and deception.
He made an entry in his travel log and hoped that the journal he left behind would not be lost or stolen. He checked the trigger of his loaded rifle, putting it within easy reach of his bedroll. Twice he practiced lifting it while lying on his back. Soon he drifted off to sleep …and dreamed of her …of holding Emma in his arms. She clung to him desperately, and he gloried in her sweet warmth.
Sweet dreams blew up as explosions detonated all around. Laing rolled in fear. A musket ball hit him in the side. With several more reports, balls ripped through the tent and hummed within inches of his bleeding flesh. He fumbled for his rifle, but the barrel was under him, and knives slashed through the tent, exposing him to attacking Taureg. Before he could arm himself, they entered his tent.
A sword stroke slashed his thigh, and he shrieked.
Men wearing dark-blue robes and turbans surrounded him. As they shuffled their feet, the material of their traditional garments ruffled.
Despite the injury, Laing jumped onto his feet to defend his blood. He dodged another sword stroke, but a knife slashed his cheek and ear. He yelled in anger, feeling blood on his neck. Another Taureg lunged at him. Laing raised his right arm to defend himself and the man’s knife slashed the meat above his wrist. Feet shuffled in the sand; robes rippled, and a sword stroke broke Laing's bleeding arm. He yelled, lost his balance, and fell to the ground.
Now the blades of several swords and sabers slashed at him, hacking at his head and hands. And with the death of his body near at hand, he saw the final stroke of the sword coming that would slash his exposed neck.
CHAPTER 1
Lagos, Portugal
2014
Kelly glanced over her shoulder before she stepped into the bakery. Inside she stood next to the bread rack, keeping an eye on the street she'd just walked up, looking for the two women in black burkas who had been following her most of the day.
“May I help you, Señora?” A dark-haired man stepped in her direction.
She reached for the closest loaf of bread and handed him money. She continued watching the street while waiting for her change…and for a couple minutes after the man put the coins in her open hand. She set the bread back on the shelf and stepped out of the store. Walking slowly down the sidewalk, she fought the urge to turn from her present course.
She pulled out her cell phone and dialed a number. Standing for a moment with the phone at her ear, she listened to a recording in Portuguese and kept an eye out for the women in black robes. Not spotting them, she thought of Ryan. She waved down a taxi, but didn't get in. “Never mind,” she said, closing the door, a gust of wind blowing through her red hair.
Kelly walked several more blocks down a thin alley before she came to the café where she was supposed to meet him. Several tables were spread out across a cobble-stone square. She knew who he was right away, a brawny man in shorts and a loose button-down shirt. She glanced around. Nobody else could possibly have been him. She looked again. Just because she was going to meet the man didn't mean she had to trust him. His shirt was wet from sweat. He wore hiking boots. A backpack leaned against his chair.
A year ago she’d have happily served on a jury that condemned this man to death. Many nights she’d lain awake wondering what he looked like, this man she hated; everything in her rebelled against this alliance. She wanted to scream at him and let him know exactly how she felt. But she couldn’t. She needed him.
***
Paul sat up in his chair at the street café when he saw her—a lovely young woman with shoulder-length red hair. He averted his gaze. When he turned back to greet her, he noticed that she walked with anxiety and carried a small travel bag over her shoulder.
He stroked his unshaven chin. He hadn’t wanted to meet with her, but he knew he had to. It was the least he could do for his childhood friend and mining partner Ryan Lebarge. After what had happened in Madagascar last year, he felt that he must. He had planned to disappear for a while to try and forget it all. But now as she walked toward him, he knew that he had to face what happened that day on that island in Africa.
He kissed her on both cheeks although not without a little hesitation, and he felt her stiffen. For a moment, she avoided returning his gaze.
Then her eyes pierced his. Despite his shame, Paul breathed deeply and smiled into them, eyes the color of smoky quartz.
“Thank you for meeting me, Paul. I'm…” Her words broke off as she stood next to the small café table.
Paul shouldered his backpack as if all his possessions weighed nothing. “I'm glad you found me.” He scanned the crowd for a moment then put his arm under hers and ushered her away from the table. “Let's take a walk,” he said. Once again he felt her stiffen at his touch.
Kelly sighed. “Sure.”
He led her down the bustling alley toward the beach. They walked along the shore for a while amid the crowds, and Paul felt her relax a little. After walking for a mile they entered a large hidden cove and sat down on the seashore.
Kelly turned toward him. “I'm so worried. I haven't heard from Ryan for months. The authorities in Madagascar wo
n’t help me. I don't know what to do.”
“Kelly, I'm sorry.” Paul reached for her shoulders. “You have to accept the fact that Ryan is gone.” He gave her a hug and felt her warm cheek against his neck.
She recoiled from him, shaking her head, turmoil swimming in her eyes. “He’s not gone. He’s coming back. I know he is.” She began to weep.
“They've already identified his body,” Paul said. “He’s gone.”
“No! He's alive.” Kelly reached into her travel bag and withdrew a magnificent blue sapphire. She set it into Paul’s large calloused hand. “If he’s dead, how could he have sent me this? It arrived weeks after he was supposedly cremated.”
Paul stared at the gleaming rock.
He turned the expertly cut gemstone over several times. Its fine angles brilliantly reflected the warm Lagos sun that shone overhead. Regret began to flood Paul’s brain. This is what he had been seeking. This is what had caused him to do what he did. This is what had cost Ryan his life. Finally he said, “Kelly, you know what the mail is like in Madagascar. This may have sat in the post office for a week before they cancelled the stamp.”
“Don't you think it's a little suspicious that the only person to identify Ryan's body asked to remain anonymous?”
Paul knew the answer to that. Abu Bakr was the reason that no one would volunteer to identify Ryan. Abu Bakr, a French-Moroccan terrorist, had been preying on the miners of the gem-rich island of Madagascar for the last two years. His thugs patrolled the island demanding protection money. Abu Bakr used the money to fund his Holy War. Recently, a million-dollar bounty had been placed on his head after he boldly claimed responsibility for several deadly attacks on Westerners. Paul considered all this as he responded gently to Kelly: “With Abu Bakr involved, they may have been afraid to identify themselves.”
“Is that why I’m being followed?” A breeze blew through her crimson hair.
Paul frowned, recalling their discussion on the phone. “I’d follow you too if I knew that you were carrying around a gem worth two million dollars.”
He handed the sapphire back to Kelly and looked toward the sparkling Atlantic Ocean which spread out like a field of endless diamonds. He stood up and walked toward a large stone outcropping that overlooked the sea. As he scaled to the top of the rock he thought about Ryan. His friend had become a marked man from the day he came out of the deep unknown, somewhere in the vast, barren wilderness of Madagascar with the world’s largest sapphire from a secret mine. He had stirred up a frenzy of speculation, and from that moment forward had been in hiding. Paul thought back to when they were just kids and how they used to spend every summer hunting garnets in the backwoods of Idaho. Paul cringed. Why did their friendship have to end the way it did?
As he sat on top of the rock he watched in sadness as Kelly climbed up the boulder, then sat down next to him. After a moment he looked over at her and said, “Kelly, you have to face the fact that Ryan is dead.”
She glared at him angrily.“How can you say that? I’m telling you he’s not dead.”
But Paul wasn't paying attention to Kelly anymore. An intense man—bald with a long, narrow face and crazed expression—was walking down the beach toward them. And he didn't look like a tourist.
CHAPTER 2
Paul grabbed Kelly and hurried her across the rock outcropping. They scrambled down the other side and came out on a thin stretch of empty beach flanked by yellow cliffs two-hundred feet high. The man came around the backside of the rock with a disturbing purposefulness and a demeanor of controlled aggression. He gave Paul a strained smile when they made eye contact. Paul tensed his leg and shoulder muscles but tried to appear calm.
As the man came close, he drew a gun and pointed it at them. “The sapphire,” he said.
Paul felt his shoulder leather rubbing against his chest, but thought better of going for his Colt .45.
Paul looked over at Kelly and nodded.
Kelly pressed the travel bag against her chest. “No,” she whispered.
“Now,” the man said, shaking his handgun in front of her face.
Kelly winced. She grasped the bag tightly. Then she opened her eyes and looked at Paul as she handed the bag to the man. The man leaned forward, grabbing the bag and Kelly's hand at the same time, tugging her. “You, come with me,” he said.
At that moment, Paul extended and swung his legs. His big boots struck hard, knocking the man's legs out from under him. Giving a pain-induced yell as he hit the hard-packed sand, the man fumbled his gun, but Paul was in an awkward position, sitting, leaning back.
The man quickly rolled and drew a thin, narrow-blade knife from his belt. He ran and dove on top of Paul who just managed to catch the man’s descending arm. They rolled in the sand. Holding the knife hand at bay, Paul released the man's other wrist and aimed a blow at the carotid artery, but his hand glanced away without solid contact. He grabbed the cartilage in the Middle Easterner’s throat and squeezed. The man screamed.
He threw Paul off and attacked. They rolled. Pinned on his back, Paul grappled with the knife hand, his fingers clenched tightly around the trembling wrist of the man who concentrated all his strength on making the knife plunge into Paul's flesh.
“Stop,” Kelly yelled.
Paul glanced at her. She had the man's gun and was pointing it at him.
“I'll shoot,” she said.
The man slowly strained his neck and looked over at her, then smiled as he looked back down. Paul wanted to go for his gun, but couldn’t.
“Now,” Kelly yelled, but the man wasn't impressed.
Paul pulled the man forward off balance, then kneed him in the groin. He spit out an agonizing moan as he hit the ground. Paul dove at him, seeing a flash of sunlight off the sharp blade in his hand.
Catching his forearm, Paul elbowed him twice in the side of the face. Yet even with Paul on top of him, the man muscled the knife toward Paul and was close to ramming it into his shoulder. Paul seized the man’s hand with both of his fists and forced the cutting edge back towards him—millimeter by millimeter.
His free hand punched Paul again and again. Kelly pushed the gun against his ear and yelled, “Stop!” but he flicked her down into the sand like a discarded cigarette. Finally, Paul overpowered his upper arm and forced the knife blade downward, downward.
The man's face contorted as he fought against Paul, trying to restrain him. But then something came over his eyes. The man screamed, “Allah Akbar! God is great!”
And then with madness overcoming his eyes, he reversed the resistance against Paul's arm, pulling the blade straight down into his own heart.
Again he screamed, “Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!” with the ferocity of a tormented demon crying out in agony.
Paul yanked his grip free of the knife, fell backward, and rolled away from the dying man. He got up onto his feet, looked over at Kelly, whose horror-filled eyes shifted between Paul and the handle sticking up from the man’s bloody chest. Paul gasped for air, his arm muscles burning. He glanced down the beach, seeing nobody. The man groaned in misery. Blood gurgled out of his chest and spread, staining his shirt red.
Paul closed in on him and patted him down quickly, locating his wallet in his jacket pocket. The man didn't seem to care. Pain was shaking through his now dying flesh.
Paul quickly flipped through the man’s wallet. It was empty except for a thick stack of cash. After pocketing the wallet, Paul continued to search the man. He felt a thick square of paper in the man’s jacket and pulled it out. It was a photo. Paul shoved it into his own pocket. Then he pulled a handkerchief out of the dead man’s shirt.
Kelly stood trembling on the sand.
“We need to get out of here,” Paul said as he scanned the coastline.
“What about the police? Shouldn’t we tell them?”
Paul got up, looked down the beach both ways again, almost stumbling backwards as he did. “If he's not alone, we won't live long enough to explain what happened.”
Paul then used the man’s handkerchief and wiped down the knife handle. Next, he reached for the man’s gun and tossed it out of reach. He gave Kelly her bag back.
Shouldering his backpack, he jogged to the edge of the sea and washed his hands.
Kelly walked toward him mumbling to herself, “Oh, no. Oh, no. What are we going to do now?”
Paul took her by the arm. “Come on,” he said.
As he pulled her down the beach he scanned the massive yellow cliffs of the Algarve that rose above the shoreline. Standing two hundred feet above them, Paul saw two figures in black burkas, staring down at them. Then he watched as they promptly turned and walked away.
He pulled Kelly and walked even faster now. “Where’s your car?”
Leaving the city of Lagos behind, Paul accelerated and looked in the rear-view mirror of Kelly's rental car, catching a glimpse of the bay and the white-washed dwellings of the city that they were leaving behind.
He couldn't believe what had just happened. He woke up this morning prepared to meet with Kelly—and now he’d killed another man. Well, he hadn't really killed him, but he'd certainly been poised over the man with the knife—yet the man killed himself. Or did he just beat Paul to the job?
Paul was sure that the women in the black robes that he’d seen up on the cliff were working with the man. But if they weren’t, they were witnesses, and they would certainly testify that Paul had stabbed the man. Depending upon how much they saw, that's how it would have looked. His hands had been wrapped around the handle of the knife when the suicide happened. Paul’s rushing heart still didn't realize the fight was over.
He took a deep breath and looked over at Kelly. She was crouched down in the car seat, staring out the window, her gaze blank.
“Are you okay?”