Murder By Moonlight

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Murder By Moonlight - book excerpt

Souvenir

A mortar shell hit the ground and exploded. A blinding flash lit up the night sky, illuminating five startled faces inside the old farmhouse.

The second shell scored a direct hit, rocking the house to its foundations. As debris scattered everywhere, the explosive force splintered the wooden table. Maps, documents, books, and computers flew across the room.

The men scrambled for their weapons—all except Hani Terif. He frantically searched the rubble for a vital item. “Let me find it, please!” he begged.

As he scrabbled in the shards of wood, paper, melted plastic, and metal, his trained ear distinguished each sound; even above their own spitting and coughing weapons. Mortars plopped in the distance. Shells screeched over the rasp of American-made automatic rifles. As fifty-caliber machine guns gargled with rifle fire, he froze. This meant one thing: Israeli commandos, too many to fight off. They must escape now or face certain death.

With their aging Russian weapons and limited ammunition, he and his fellow Deadly Underground brethren had no chance against their attackers. The best-trained soldiers on this side of the world, the Israeli commandos closed in fast. Their life spans possibly reduced to a handful of seconds, his men fought their way out. They crawled, dragging wounded legs. They limped, arms slung around comrades’ shoulders.

“Meet me at the Deadly Underground safe house outside Cairo in two weeks!” Hani ordered his men. “I will hold off the enemy for as long as possible.”

Rockets roared overhead in a dreadful barrage. His muscles tightened. Knowing he would never hear the shot that killed him, he trembled. The others charged out into the night, under cover of his prattling machine gun fire. Israeli bullets whispered around their feet. He continued to scan the room for the priceless Koran. Finally, his sharp eyes spotted it wedged under a corner of the rug. Grateful for keen eyesight, he leapt across the room to grasp the small leather-bound book.

He fled the building as an explosion blew it sky-high. Watching his fellow brothers-in-arms blown to shards of bone and spattered blood, Hani realized he was the only survivor.

* * *

The British Airways 747 headed for London with its payload of American tourists, British visitors eager to return home, fidgety first-time flyers, and a genial crew. The Lassiter Tours group sat in coach; six Americans of various ages and backgrounds, about to embark on their whirlwind tour of Egypt.

Settled in a window seat, Dr. Lawrence Everett, Professor of Heritage Studies at Plymouth State University read a thesis on his iPad. Next to him sat his wife Janice, silently mouthing a Hail Mary, rosary beads clutched between her fingers.

Professor Everett noticed his wife’s bowed head. “Honey, we’re not even off the ground yet.” Just in case, he reached for the plastic-lined bag in the pouch in front of her.

“Hey, we’re finally moving!” Jeff Sullivan, the passenger to Janice Everett’s right, nudged her. “We’re now on the way to our first fuel stop: London Heathrow,” he dictated into a digital recorder. “From there we’ll continue on to Cairo, Egypt. The origin of all genius known to mankind…”

Across the aisle, in the middle three seats, sat the Brooklyn-born Russo family: ample-paunched Dominic, his health-conscious wife Anna Maria, and their twenty-two-year-old daughter Carmella, reading Yoga Journal. This trip was a celebration of Carmella’s second chance at life.

The jet climbed into the clouds, about to blaze its vapor trail across the Atlantic.

* * *

The Lassiter Tours group arrived at the Cairo Hilton in time for a late dinner. After the hurried meal in the hotel’s restaurant, the tour director arrived.

“Good evening. I’m Yasar Massri. I’m an Egyptian archaeology student and will be your guide for the next two weeks.”

The travelers gathered in the hotel lobby as Yasar gave a brief history of Memphis, their first stop the following morning. “Please be here in the lobby at eight-thirty to meet our motor coach,” he finished his spiel of instructions. “Breakfast will be served at eight.”

As the crowd shuffled toward the elevators, Carmella approached Yasar, now entering the lounge. “You sound like a learned man of the world.” She rushed out her words, breathless with excitement. “I can’t wait to see Egypt.”

“I take it you’ve never been here before.” He moved towards her, closing the respectable distance.

“No, never. This is a very special trip for me. A real celebration. I’ve always been fascinated with Egyptian history and the mystery of the pyramids, how they’re built with such precision, lined up with stars. You sure have a history to be proud of.”

He beamed. “Well, thank you. We are proud of it.”

“Whenever I travel, I make sure to meet the locals. Especially the tour guides.” She paused for effect—and to take a breath. “Would you like to sit in the lounge and talk a while? I’ll even take notes.” She slid her iPad from her bag to show him.

“I’d be happy to.” He led her into the lounge where they took two seats at a cozy corner table. He ordered a beer and she ordered orange juice.

“Speaking of history, look at this.” He slid a small leather book from his pocket and held it out to her.

She stared in wonder as he placed it in her palm. “It’s so old and fragile. Was it found in a pharaoh’s tomb or something?”

He chuckled. “No, it’s a Koran. I bought it at an auction this morning. It somehow survived a battle between Israeli commandos and terrorists at the old Bishara farm, a few months back.”

She opened it and ran a finger down the inside cover. “It’s so frayed and—what’s this writing here?”

“I’m not sure. I need to study it closer.” The waiter served their drinks. Yasar took a sip of his beer.

“Did you pay a lot for it, if you don’t mind my asking?” She opened it to a random page and swept her eyes over the ancient, foreign writing.

“About one hundred dollars, American money. The other bidders had been village sightseers, too scared of the terrorists of Deadly Underground to even bid for the few intact items. As if they’d kill for the wreckage of their junk.” He chuckled.

“Well, it certainly is something to be treasured.” She held the precious artifact between two fingers and placed it in his hands.

“I know it will protect me from any harm. It sounds superstitious, but that’s the feeling I have about it, from the moment I saw it.” He clasped it and held it to his heart.

Carmella smiled. “Oh, I know all about that. No one’s more superstitious than Old World Italians. I’ve seen old folks cast the Malocchio, the evil eye, when they have it in for someone.” She pointed her index finger and pinkie at him.

“I hope that doesn’t mean you just gave it to me.” He shielded his face with his Koran, laughing.

“Not at all.” She circled her hand around her glass. “I never wish harm on anyone. It’s bad karma. You know all about that, don’t you?”

He nodded. “Oh, do I. I respect God, worship Him, and fear Him. And His wrath. If you call it karma, so be it.”

That sent a shiver down her spine. “Let’s talk about something pleasant, like your history. I can’t wait to see the pyramids and all the ancient artifacts.”

They spent the evening chatting about history, art, books. She lost track of time.

What a nice guy, she thought, returning to her hotel room. I hope he’s on Facebook. He’s worth getting to know better.

* * *

The next morning, a motor coach waited outside the front entrance of the Cairo Hilton while Yasar rushed the American tourists through their breakfast. “We must now board the bus, folks. It’s time to roll.”

As they gulped down their coffee and hurried out the door, Dominic Russo wrapped the remaining croissants in a napkin and stuffed them into his pocket with packets of jelly. The bus started up and headed for Memphis, stopping briefly so Yasar and the driver could face Mecca and pray. Yasar would not be the only Muslim on board and all wereexpected to heed the call to prayer.

* * *

Throngs of tourists surrounded the enormous statue of Ramses II, lying on its back inside a gazebo-like structure. Yasar’s cell phone rang and he glanced at the screen. “Please stick together, folks, I will return in a moment,” he instructed the group. He dashed away to take the call. The tourists continued ogling the statue and cartouche, the rectangular-shaped design with Ramses’s name in hieroglyphics. After ten minutes, only Carmella noticed Yasar hadn’t returned.

“Where’s Yasar?” A stab of fear shot through her. She knew how dangerous the Middle East was. They’d taken this trip against the State Department’s warning to stay away. Her eyes darted about as she dashed outside and lowered her sunglasses, scanning the area for the handsome tour guide.

Moments later, a policeman appeared, holding something in his hand. His narrowed eyes scanned the crowd. To her mounting horror, Carmella saw he held a bright yellow tour group badge. Her heart leapt to her throat as the officer spotted the matching badge pinned to Carmella’s chest. She swayed, nearly fainting as he approached her group.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he stammered in faltering English. “Your tour guide, Yasar…he is dead.”

Carmella broke down and wept. Dominic Russo’s jaw clamped shut on the croissant he’d been munching. Janice Everett gasped and knelt on the ground to pray.