by H. B. Moore
Following the other passengers, Jade halted in front of passport control, where she unzipped her backpack and handed over her passport. Then she made her way through the crowd to get her suitcase from the baggage area.
If it hadn’t been for the death of her beloved professor, Dr. Lyon, she wouldn’t have come alone. Instead of going home to a summer of trivial lunches at the club, tennis matches with the guys, and endless summer parties, she had chosen the internship in Cairo to research her thesis on the queen of Sheba. Jade had a lot of work ahead of her, since the evidence was thin on the queen being the daughter of an Egyptian pharaoh. Yemen and Ethiopia believed the queen had lived and reigned in their countries. She’d possibly reigned over both Yemen and Ethiopia, but couldn’t have been born in both. And the whole premise of the Ethiopian monarchy relied on the queen’s union with King Solomon of Israel, which produced their son, Emperor Menelik I.
At twenty-four, Jade had completed her first year in the master’s program at Brown University and was well on her way to the associate teaching position she hoped to land upon graduation. Her thesis was due in December, so this trip came at a perfect time to meet her deadline. The history of the queen of Sheba had always fascinated her. A woman who was either heralded as a goddess or accused a demon, depending on the scholar. A woman who was wealthy enough to bring one hundred and twenty talents of gold, abundant spices, and jewels to King Solomon. A woman who sought out Solomon’s wisdom about God, and was later referred to in the Gospel of Matthew as one who had the ability to judge and condemn the generations following Christ’s life.
Perhaps Jade was fascinated in the queen because she was a woman, but it was more likely because of the contrasting theories about who the queen really was and how such a powerful woman could be human. So when Dr. Lyon had invited her to be his research assistant, she had been thrilled. In her professor’s honor, Jade would aid in Dr. Lyon’s quest to find the remains of the queen of Sheba and reveal her fabled wealth.
Jade spotted her floral luggage and grabbed it, then made her way through customs.
After customs, she walked through the exterior doors, where the cigarette smoke was replaced by dust—and a hot breeze that felt like it was at least a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Jade hesitated for a moment, barraged by the temperature change, when a young boy pressed against her arm.
Flies danced around his face as his eager eyes looked into hers. “One dollah?”
Instinctively Jade reached into her backpack, but then immediately regretted her actions as half a dozen kids swarmed her, each one more earnest than the next.
“Yallah! Yallah!” one wiry boy shouted.
Confused, Jade looked around. Yallah meant “hurry” and was one of the few Arabic words she understood.
She held up her hand. “Stenna.” Wait. She fished out some quarters and handed them to the children. Just as quickly as the children had gathered, they were gone. Jade pivoted and saw two policemen rushing toward her then passing to follow the children.
Jade scanned the taxis that lined the curb. Several drivers raised their arms and waved, calling to her, all of them with a cigarette hanging out of their mouths. She tried not to smile at their open shirts, revealing dark chest hair and thick, gold chains. The ’70s never left this city. Honking came from all directions, as well as rapid shouting in Arabic. Jade was just about to select a taxi when a man stepped in front of her.
“Ms. Holmes?”
The faint odor of spicy aftershave reached her nose. She looked up, startled to see amber eyes in a city of dark. The man’s face was deeply tanned and narrow, but rugged looking—the kind of face described in romance novels. His sandy hair was slightly shaggy, and a couple of days’ growth stood out on his cheeks and chin. For an instant she was reminded of a lion until the man offered a half smile. His teeth were even and white, nothing like the fangs of a wild African beast. “Mademoiselle Holmes?”
How perfect. He spoke with a French accent. Another romance novel cliché. Then she realized he was waiting for her answer. “Yes, I am . . . she . . .”
“It’s all a little overwhelming at first, isn’t it?”
“And you are?”
“Dr. Lucas Morel, Egyptologist and devoted follower of the late Dr. Lyon. It looks like we’ll be spending the summer working together.” An almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrow told Jade he was sizing her up.
So this was the scholar Dr. Lyon had told her so much about. She wondered how old he was and guessed he was in his late thirties. She glanced away, uncomfortable with his open stare.
“Come on,” Lucas said. “I’m parked over here.” He lifted her suitcase and walked away from the taxis.
Devoted follower? What an odd thing to say—as if Dr. Lyon were the leader of some cult. She decided she was at least intelligent enough to work with this shaggy guy in precisely pressed khakis. Any intimidation she’d felt earlier about meeting a renowned Egyptologist was gone. She just wished he wasn’t so good looking. He probably had a gorgeous wife and three kids in a villa along the Mediterranean coast.
She followed him until he stopped next to a silver Mercedes—older model—and popped the trunk. Jade hesitated for a moment, noticing that the front wheels were perched on the edge of the curb—a green curb. About a foot from the passenger door was a bus sign, which meant he’d parked illegally. She caught Lucas looking at her with an amused expression.
A blaring horn made her flinch.
Lucas chuckled. “Jump in, or we’ll get run over.”
Jade eased through the passenger door and sat, glancing behind her. The driver of the bus was shouting. She looked over at Lucas as he maneuvered his way into traffic. “Aren’t you afraid of getting a ticket?”
“The police don’t care. In fact, look behind you.”
The bus horn continued to blare as Jade turned. Sure enough, another midsized car had slid into the space Lucas had just vacated. The driver jumped out and shook a fist at the bus, receiving a honk in return.
Jade leaned against her seat. “Wow.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
She swallowed against her dry throat. Lucas seemed to drive effortlessly through the heavy, noisy traffic.
Lucas suddenly swerved the car to avoid a motorbike, sending her careening against him. “Sorry,” he muttered.
She straightened and gazed out the window at the brown high-rises, the littered sidewalks, and the barefooted children running from car to car, trinkets dangling from their hands.
“If you acknowledge even one of them, our car will be mobbed,” he said. Traffic thinned just enough that Lucas found an opening and moved onto a side street, again causing her to bump into him. His hand touched her arm, supporting her, for an instant longer than necessary. An unexpected tingle spread across her skin. Here I am, in the middle of Cairo, sitting next to an extremely handsome Frenchman. She tried to ignore the warmth his touch had brought. After all, it was over one hundred degrees outside. That explains it. She glanced at his hands, looking for a wedding ring, but saw nothing. Well, he probably has a woman in every city from here to Paris. She wanted to laugh at herself. Really, she wanted to ask Lucas a thousand questions, but most of all, she wanted a shower.
The car slowed, and Jade peered out the window. “We’re stopping at the Coptic Museum?” They were passing a courtyard festooned with palms, where beyond the fountain and gargoyles rose a monument, topped by a bust standing guard in front of a stone building. She’d assumed they’d be tackling work tomorrow. The Coptic religion fascinated her—being the oldest Christian community in the Middle East, after having broken off from the Roman Catholic Church more than a dozen centuries before. The museum preserved some of the oldest artifacts in Egypt, and many of them had yet to be thoroughly studied. “It looks ancient.” She rolled down her window, letting the hot air strike her face.
“If you consider 1910 ancie
nt.”
Jade glanced at him, very aware of their close proximity in the small Mercedes. She wondered if he always kept his window down while the air-conditioning was blasting. “1910? I thought it was founded by Marcus Simaika in 1914.”
“Morcos Smeika Pasha founded the Coptic Museum in 1910. Tomorrow you can read all about it on his monument.”
“Tomorrow?”
“We have early dinner reservations.”
She was just about to reach for her phone to check the itinerary outlined by Dr. Lyon when the car lurched forward. Lucas maneuvered into the unforgiving traffic as several horns blared. Sticking his head out of the window, he shouted something in Arabic.
In front of them, a car had come to an abrupt halt, nearly plowing into another. Lucas slammed on the brakes. Behind them, tires screeched, and the sage scent of burnt rubber filled the air.
“What happened?” she asked, breathless.
“The light turned red, and someone decided to stop,” Lucas said through gritted teeth.
Jade glanced at his profile. His eyes were focused straight ahead, unblinking. “Is there a problem with that?”
He released his grip on the steering wheel. “It’s just unusual in this part of town. Typically it takes a police officer to halt the traffic. So if someone suddenly decides to stop for a red light, well . . . you see what happens.”
Looking behind, Jade saw angry drivers climbing out of their vehicles, several of them shouting. Lucas pounded his palm against the steering wheel. They waited in the nearly suffocating heat, and she absentmindedly twisted her mood ring, noticing it had changed to pale amber. Anxious. “Maybe we could just go back to the museum until the traffic clears.”
“No, I’ve got a better idea.” He threw the gearshift into reverse, then turned and placed a hand behind her seat. “Hang on.” With his other hand on the steering wheel, he gunned the engine, sliding neatly between two cars. Amid more honking and Arabic expletives, Lucas deftly wove his way into the oncoming traffic.
“What are you doing?” Jade gripped the sides of her seat, thankful for her seat belt as her nails dug into the soft leather.
Lucas ignored her above the roar of the Mercedes and the frantic beeping of angry motorists. Jade’s body jerked to the right then the left. She squeezed her eyes shut and suddenly . . . it was quiet.
“Here we are,” Lucas said. He opened his door and unfolded his long frame.
They had parked in a dark alleyway. Large cardboard boxes lined the dirt-covered walls. With trembling hands, Jade unlatched her seat belt and reached for the door handle.
“One dollah,” a voice said outside her window. A young man opened her door. His white shirt and tan pants hung on his body, at least two sizes too big. If nothing else, his thinness was apparent in his gaunt face. Climbing out, Jade turned, searching for Lucas.
“This way,” Lucas called from several paces away. “Ignore the boy. I already paid him to watch the car.”
Jade flashed a halfhearted smile at the young man’s eager face. Then she moved past him. Trying not to wrinkle her nose in disgust at the alley’s rancid stench, Jade reached Lucas’s side. “Where are we?”
“Quiet,” he whispered. He gripped her arm in the near darkness and walked briskly down the center of the alley. Then he leaned close, his breath hot on her ear. “There are plenty of beggars living in these alley houses. We don’t want them all to come out at once.”
Jade stole a glance along the walls of the alley. Houses? They were boxes. “Why—”
“Shhh!” Lucas hissed, steering her toward a short flight of stairs that ascended above the street. At the top was a small courtyard, and at the far end was a door framed with a thin line of light. He knocked, and within seconds, the door opened. He pulled Jade along with him into the glittering interior.
Delicate lamps with dangling beads were scattered throughout the room. Brocade cushions served as chairs at low tables, and heavy tapestries hung on the walls. Blue smoke hung thick in the air and was unlike any Jade had ever smelled. It was sweet, almost intoxicating.
“Frankincense,” Lucas said.
Jade looked about the room. The men and women sat huddled together on the cushions, eating with their hands from large platters filled with steaming rice and meat.
A squat man approached, wearing a neatly pressed white chef’s uniform, arms nearly as large as his torso. “Ah, Monsieur Morel, we are delighted you could join us this evening. Will it be just the two of you?”
“Yes,” Lucas said. “And we’re hungry.”
A deep laugh bubbled from their bearded host, and they followed him to an alcove where cushions had been propped around a miniature table. “Satisfactory?”
“Very.” Lucas pressed several pound notes into the man’s hand and then turned to Jade. “After you.”
She sank into the cushions, feeling her tension from the traffic congestion and near accident begin to diminish. She realized she was famished. “I could eat a goat—”
“Be careful what you say,” he said as he sat.
“Why? Because they serve goat?”
“No.” His eyes scanned the room.
“What are you looking for? You’re acting like we’re on some sort of a spy mission.”
He rotated his tan face until his eyes locked with hers. At this close distance, there was no doubt that part of his irises were gold. Jade shifted against the cushions with increasing uncertainty. Lucas looked like a tiger—ready to pounce.
Two steaming platters of barley and meat were delivered, along with a pot of dark tea. Jade looked at the food and let the spicy scent engulf her. As Lucas started to pour a cup of the tea, she said, “Water’s fine.”
He shook his head. “Don’t try the water. Soda’s much safer.”
“All right.” Jade looked around. “What do they have?”
“I believe you call it Coke.” His eyes were lit with amusement.
Why is he looking at me like that? Doesn’t he ever drink soda? “Perfect.”
He signaled the waiter, and within seconds, a chilled bottle was set before her, opened, with a straw. After the waiter left, Lucas leaned in. “We’re the ones being spied on,” he said, his voice barely audible.
Jade suppressed a smile. “Who would want to spy on a research assistant and an Egyptologist?”
“The same people who murdered Dr. Lyon.”
Murdered? She gaped at him. “What do you mean?”
“They knew he was close to discovering Queen Nicaula’s burial place, and they killed him for it.”
Jade stared at him across the table. She knew Nicaula was another name for the queen of Sheba. The cushions beneath her felt stiff and hostile, the frankincense stifling instead of inviting. Instinct told her that no one could possibly be capable of harming a man such as Dr. Lyon. Yes, different nations claimed Nicaula as their queen, but the monarch had been dead for thousands of years. “How could the location of her burial place matter so much? All the artifacts will belong to the country in which it’s found.”
His gaze locked with hers. Lucas said, “It matters to three nations. The Yemenis profess Bilqis was their queen, ruling over the region of Saba. The Ethiopians claim her as their Makeda and say that her son was a product of her union with King Solomon. And of course, there’s the thesis you’re working on—that the queen was the daughter of an Egyptian pharaoh.” He dug into his food.
Jade followed suit. After a few minutes of thinking about what Lucas had told her, she said, “Even though three peoples claim her as their queen, it’s not as if the course of history would change if one country were proved wrong.”
Lucas leaned forward, the soft light throwing irregular shadows on his near-perfect features. “A common misconception. Dr. Lyon had been studying an ancient site on satellite photographs of Oman—a site some scholars refer to as Ubar, hund
reds of miles west of Yemen. In recent conversations, he claimed to have spotted evidence of the legendary city. In addition, he also made an astonishing declaration: Ubar may be the birthplace of the queen of Sheba. Ancient cultures buried their dead in the land of the deceased’s birth.”
Ubar is just a legend—a city spoken about only in fables by the likes of Marco Polo, Jade thought with irony. “That’s impossible. The news would be around the world if Dr. Lyon had discovered Ubar and purported the queen of Sheba was buried there.” She paused, seeing the conviction on his face. “In all my classes with the professor, he never mentioned this. Impossible.” She wriggled against the cushion, feeling exceptionally hot all of a sudden.
“Not at all,” Lucas said with a self-satisfied smirk. “According to Lyon, evidence—now suppressed—has been found in a tomb in Jerusalem that Solomon may not have been a king at all. If that’s the case, the queen may not have known Solomon, let alone conceived his heir. That rules out the Ethiopians’ claim that their royal dynasty was fathered by Solomon, and possibly the Egyptians. If Solomon is taken out of the picture, the Yemenis become the top contenders for their claim to the queen. And with Dr. Lyon’s theory, the country of Oman just burst into the arena.”
At this, Jade stopped eating, losing awareness of the restaurant around her. Her mind reeled at the importance of what Lucas said, but she couldn’t grasp the significance until he spoke again.
“You know there’s no archaeological evidence that King Solomon or King David ever existed. Their tombs have never been found, or any other evidence of their lives or deaths.” He lowered his voice. “Finding her tomb is even more essential now. If the stories on her tomb wall include Solomon, that will prove once and for all that Solomon and David were real, which in turn will substantiate their story found in the book of Kings. If that is proven, then it can be deducted that the key stories in the Bible are true. The Jews’ claim to Israel will be solidified.”
