Title: At the Foot of the Throne
Written For: Yahtzee in the WowWrongBadHot ficathon
Spoilers: vague ones up to 4x13 "Tuesday"
Requirements: will be added at the end of the story
Thanks to: Psychopepsquad and Elise2 who made it all possible.
A/N: Far below
Simple.
That's how it should proceed: Fly in, assemble according to plan, and complete the mission objective.
Ancient artifacts he's familiar with after all, even though this one isn't connected to a medieval Italian genius. Finding it is not the tricky part, discretion and pacing are. He's dealt successfully with some of the most delicate and dangerous tasks; this one, albeit introducing a new variant, still consists of all available factors--some classified to him alone--to be weighed against each other. Apart from the one grand miscalculation he can't bring himself to regret, rarely has there been any deviation between his (carefully constructed) theories and his (equally carefully executed) practice. In theory, it's all simple.
And that's how it will proceed.
"Hamid Abd-ul Mustafa."
Her father's perfect enunciation never fails to grab Nadia's attention. She regards the screen he's pointing at and is instantly embarrassed by her surprise to see not the dark, glowering visage of some stereotypical fanatic but the open, wide-eyed face of a pudgy man with a receding hairline.
"Turkish national, member of a traditional, wealthy family. Rumour has it he came back from the hajj--the pilgrimage to Mecca--a changed man, having fallen in with followers of The Green Scimitar."
Dramatic pause; someone's cue. Out of the corner of her eye, Nadia sees Dixon's nod.
"A group of Sunnite Islamic fanatics with followers all over the Arabian peninsula; you may have seen their name in one of the last internal memos before: MI-05/013."
"The one highlighting the situation in Iraq and the return of Muqtada al-Sadr." Vaughn sounds alarmed, and even Nadia can't help but feel a slight twinge of anxiety. Terrorists are their daily fare, but most of them deal in arms, drugs, intel, and not quasi-religious propaganda. She's found the gleam of utter and immutable faith far more terrifying than the glint of greed, hatred, or lust she's seen in the eyes of her respective agency's targets. But then, her personal experience didn't involve religion as such.
Arvin Sloane's voice cuts in. "Precisely, Agent Vaughn. Like Al-Sadr and other militants attempting to topple the fragile democracy in Iraq, The Green Scimitar are religious extremists; only the rift between the Sunnites and the Shiites has prevented a more stable collaboration. Unlike them, they are spread out all over the Middle East and therefore threaten the relative peace and stability in Iraq and elsewhere. Unlike them, they are not yet active. Agent Dixon?"
"The Green Scimitar believe in the power of tabarukaat, Islamic religious relics. They are shown respect and veneration by some, but the Green Scimitar believes powerful blessings can be gained from them. Greatest among them is the ring Prophet Mohammed wore on his right hand, later sealed in a box made of the wood from the palm tree in Medina." Dixon looks over at her father. "According to them, it can be utilised as a means for gaining the ultimate victory, so once it is found, they will rise up and strike at those whom they consider puppets of the infidels."
"Which constitutes pretty much every Middle Eastern regime." Drier than dust in the desert: Jack's voice.
"The government has no interest in such an attack." Her father makes it sound as if the alternative was a theoretical possibility. Nadia feels just a little unwell; she doesn't need to turn her head to see the same unease reflected in her sister's face.
"In 1633, during Ibrahim I's Caliphate, the tabaruk was taken by an Ottoman imam and carried to the capital of the empire where it still lies hidden. The Scimitar, however, have no infrastructure in Turkey, not to mention they lack resources."
"But Hamid Abd-ul Mustafa has them." Sydney doesn't need more intel to draw conclusions that make Arvin Sloane nod. "He is planning to do the dirty work for them, and try to find the tabaruk to turn it over to the Scimitar."
"Yes, Sydney. Obviously, we must find the ring first."
For some reason, Marshall is valiantly trying to suppress a grin and now mouths something in her direction. For a moment, Nadia is perplexed--until she realises Sydney has most likely given him just the same sort of puzzled scrutiny. His answer, as far as she can tell, involves the words "mount" and "doom."
She can't help but smile, a little.
"Nadia."
Slowly, she straightens, looks her father in the eye.
"Sydney. You two will retrieve the tabaruk We have to work with the utmost precision. There is no margin for error."
Sydney's soft cough sounds faintly like Is there ever. But, when Nadia turns her head, the familiar expression of rebellion she expected to see is, happily, absent. Nadia loves her sister more than she ever thought possible, but that doesn't mean it's not difficult to accept her fathomless loathing of Sloane.
"Vaughn and I will provide strategy and the technical details in the background." Jack, calm and authoritative. "Our plane for Istanbul leaves in seven hours. We'll be briefed en route. Let's go."
Ortaköy is delightful in spring.
Apart from a few more international chain stores, the quarter looks just as Nadia remembers. Sydney and she stroll through the narrow, pebble-stoned streets, past trendy little cafés and crooked old shop fronts until the old city path leads them to their destination.
"So this is it?"
An old Ottoman mansion in clear view of the river. Without stopping, the sisters walk by.
"Yeah. This used to be the residence of the imam's family, according to the intel, anyway." Sydney idly rummages through her perfectly accessorised purse--Istanbul girls? Nothing if not fashionable--but her eyes behind horn-rimmed sunglasses are fixed on the building. "Let's hope the prayer room is still intact."
"Well, it's not likely that the new owners have sealed it with cement."
"Who knows, with plans from the turn of the century--the one before the last." At Nadia's slightly confused glance, her sister sighs apologetically. "Sorry, I don't mean to be unprofessional, and a party pooper to boot. It's just--" she bites her lip, "the hunt for a cleverly hidden object believed to be part of some powerful endgame played by a bunch of madmen sets my teeth on edge."
They keep going, Sydney clearly waiting for some sort of reaction, but Nadia finds that, all of a sudden, the tiny imperfection in the nail polish of her right thumb is endlessly fascinating. It's clear to see where her sister comes from: an endless quest with a terrorist cell, the CIA, an ageing Russian diplomat, and the CIA-slash-terrorist cell again. Nadia just wishes that sometimes, Sydney could see where her little sister comes from: a life without any family at all, one that makes it impossible not to view her father in a different light.
"Come on." She says, brightly, and walks a little faster. "We must get ready; it'll be dark soon." After just a moment of hesitation, Sydney follows.
He's used to the quick look Vaughn gives him, the one that is equal parts deference to his superior, respect for his senior agent, and wariness toward the father of his girlfriend. Jack approves of all three elements. He nods curtly.
A button is pressed. Intercom connection established.
"Phoenix, do you copy?"
"Copy. Our position?" Syd's voice, calm and steady, from the depths of the building in front of which their ancient Mercedes with tinted windows is parked.
"You're clear. Have you located the prayer room?"
"Yes; the door is--"
Metallic sounds, a creak. "--open." Sydney still, but after an instant, the second line crackles to life.
"Evergreen to base: Old-fashioned lock opened with corresponding key as found at hook next to lavatory niche."
Unbidden, Nadia's face in his mind's eye.
He's seen footage of her (not all of it from their APO missions). She's good, of course, she's Irina's and Arvin's child; but he rather appreciates she realised with one quick glance that an old key might belong to the relevant door on account of it hanging in a niche for ritual washing prior to prayer.
A few steps that resonate through the comm link. Marble, solid stone? Then, a faint buzz, pleased murmurs.
"Scanned for hollow spaces, successfully so. Evergreen looking for an opening mechanism."
Jack finds himself waiting for another triumphant transmission from Nadia. Listening to her rustle in the background, he stares at the two external surveillance screens.
Suddenly, movement, and more.
"Raptor to Shotgun and Evergreen. Suspect activity on the grounds; two unidentified persons approaching the building from the river. Finish the operation now."
"Copy that," but not a second later, Syd hisses, "no---there is no box in there."
Vaughn perches forward, brow creased. "Clarify: It's empty?"
"As far as we can tell." Jack can hear Sydney's frown. "There are not even imprints in the dust; someone must've removed it ages ago."
Nadia's voice now, puzzled but determined: "Wait--it's true, it seems to have been empty, but it's too flat to have stored a box."
Flat. Not the storage space they expected. Jack snatches the microphone.
"Raptor to Evergreen. Remove the dust particles. Proceed with caution."
"Copy that--ah! I can see something; stand by."
"Raptor to Phoenix, two more uninvited guests have entered the premises through a window to the garden diagonally across the building. Guard the exit route but avoid any contact."
"Copy." Fast steps out; Jack hears Vaughn's urgent chatter to Sydney over their comm link.
"Evergreen to Raptor. It's...a map etched in the rough stone beneath the floor. A round structure by the river surrounded by--got it! Galata Tower! And there is another sketch with a marker."
"Can you memori--"
"Done. And yes, I'll try to deface the drawing."
Sydney's voice interrupts them, sharp and clear. "Evergreen, they're headed straight in our direction. Abort; I'll cover you."
"Copy that."
A click; he can hear her running down an unseen hallway. She would've disconnected now, linked only to Vaughn with his guard of the inside of the house.
"There's Syd; okay, we'll make it."
He softly exhales a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
"Jack? Sorry."
Radio silence now, but it's just as good. He wouldn't have known what to reply.
After their narrow escape, they ride to Galata Tower. Nadia wonders if, in her report, she can sum it up by stating that operatives Jack and Sydney Bristow argued about the mission and its preparation.
A lot.
In all likelihood, this is more about Jack as Sloane's partner involved in the planning stages of the mission than Jack as a senior operative per se, but it still isn't pleasant. Vaughn agrees---whenever their eyes meet, he looks as if he's sitting on a bed of nails rather than in a car, one that oddly reminds her of the older cars once so popular in her native...well, not native but home country.
Perimeter downstairs cleared (it's amazing what a hastily created "Decontamination Area--Rat Poison Alert!" sign at the door to the staircase can do), they enter while Vaughn takes the lift to the top floor with its nightclub and restaurant to equally adorn the stairway entrance.
Not even halfway up the stairs, Sydney stops abruptly.
"Nadia, you're sure you've memorised the position of the marker correctly?"
She knows she has but keeps her temper in check--it's not her, Nadia, it's not her Sydney's annoyed with. She straightens her back and steps closer, closer until she is standing next to her sister. Who stares at a blank stone wall.
"I am--the marker pointed to the foot of the second flight of stairs."
"But you said it looked like a doorway."
"It did; but it was rather small. Maybe it wasn't to scale and just meant a niche? An alcove hidden in the wall?"
Syd nods and crouches down, her fingers expertly running along the edges where floor meets wall; Nadia quickly follows suit. Just stone smoothed out; it's her sister who utters a hiss of satisfaction.
"There's a hole."
Nadia stoops low. True enough, there is. Tiny, almost like a keyhole, half-hidden behind a ledge.
"Want to try it? Or do we assume a snake is guarding it from the inside?"
A joke, just a joke, but Sydney is not amused. "I don't much care for booby-traps of any kind. Nadia--"
"It's okay." Before Sydney can react, Nadia sticks her finger into the hole experimentally, not without a slight thrill of fear. The right course of action would be to stick to protocol and try to evaluate the situation, but protocol also dictates being flexible in times of necessity. Both the Galata Tower staff and Mustafa's goons may be here any minute; there is no time for lengthy recon.
She can feel something give; an audible clicking sound emerges. Suddenly, it's child's play to pry out one of the bottom stones--
Another drawing, not even a map.
"The silhouette of a mosque." There's an edge to Sydney's voice. "This, in a city of a hundred mosques."
"What is this, in the bottom right corner?"
"Two tiny towers? Two pillars? Ah, I got it--"
"Tombstones!"
For a heartbeat, the sisters are grinning at each other. Sydney tucks a strand of her hair back pensively. "The cemetery of Süleymaniye Mosque with its twin tombstones; I've seen the photos."
"You're right--that's it. I've been there once, an acquaintance of mine... Anyway, let's go!"
They do, but not before smashing the stone surface--not a minute to early. Above them, there are urgent voices, footsteps hurrying down.
They make it, though; Jack in the front seat listens to their quick account intently, and when Nadia searches the rear-view mirror, she meets his dark eyes fixed on her.
She looks down quickly, and lets Sydney finish their little report.
When they reach the cemetery, Vaughn and Jack leave; their trace covered for now, they have to be back at the headquarters located in the port at the heart of the bay.
Despite the darkness still covering them--has it only been four hours since it all began?--they don't need to look very too long to find twin tombstones the exact shape of the ones in the sketch. They are foreign to Nadia but have the grace to be distinct even in the unsteady light of a torch.
Slowly, Sydney crouches down and stares at the larger headstone, slim and high, bearing the coiled curves of Arabic script.
"Can you read it?"
She isn't used to Sydney being this tense, or taciturn.
"No. I can speak enough to get by, but... We'll have to abort this task."
Nadia hears her own tiredness and frustration in her sister's voice, and lightly puts her hand on her shoulder.
"Let's head off. After we've informed Jack and Vaughn, we'll use this payphone across the street and establish a secure line to APO."
"I see. Well, Atatürk's introduction of the Latin alphabet was a fairly recent development."
Sydney purses her lips, but Nadia is faster, more hurried, and stands right in front of the receiver.
"It's okay, you couldn't know about this becoming a...scavenger hunt through ancient sites."
"Yes, you could. What happened to the utmost precision with no margin for error?"
Sydney's voice is cool and collected; odd how it still manages to send a lance of heat and anger through Nadia.
Her father may or may not have felt the same, but his tone is completely matter-of-fact.
"Sydney, I apologise for overlooking the extent of this task. I do not, however, apologise for pulling you off this mission. Report back with Vaughn in Bebek; your part will be taken over by someone who reads Arabic."
Sydney is standing close enough to touch; impossible not to notice the low hum of barely controlled fury beneath her skin. Her mouth is so close to Nadia's ear that Syd's sharp exhalation of breath is a tiny explosion.
Nadia has always been dexterous. Now, she covers the microphone and Sydney´s clenched fist in one fluid movement.
"Please, not now."
Sydney´s eyes lock with hers and soften a little. She's a professional, after all. She nods almost imperceptibly and, when Nadia uncups the mike, simply breathes "accepted."
Nadia is starting to relax when Sydney, half-turned away, speaks up again.
"Dixon knows Arabic, but he didn't come to Istanbul with us. May I ask who will replace me?"
Arvin Sloane's answer does away with her tranquillity.
"Your father, of course. Jack."
Author's Notes:
1. I thought long and hard about including Islamic extremism in a piece of fiction; thus utilising a concept of the enemy and simplifying such a complicated issue isn't something I'm very comfortable with. (Why yes, I'm German. Seriously, I feel a bit like authors during the Cold War period conveniently coming up with new dastardly plans by teh evil Russians.) Still, I disliked the thought of adding another run-of-the mill terrorist or criminal mastermind we'd never heard of before even more.
2. So, I've researched the locations and issues but am sure I've run roughshod over one or the other essential detail. My apologies; all remaining mistakes are my own.
3. Apart from the standard Qusţanţiniyye used by Arab writers, one of the names the names the Ottomans gave to Istanbul wasPây-i takht, "the foot of the throne" (Persian).
4. Feedback of any kind & length is craved like a junkie craves heroin.