Finding Sheba (Omar Zagouri Thriller Book 1)

by H. B. Moore

  Her chest tightened. Now this was something someone might kill for.

  “But that’s not all,” he said. “Something else was found in that tomb—something that will lead us to the queen and put all doubts to rest.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what we need to find out.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  Israeli Intelligence Headquarters—Northern Command

  “Welcome home.”

  Omar gazed at his hands, avoiding his boss’s penetrating stare. He hated the man’s pointed face, close-set eyes, and groomed mustache. A weasel. Omar sat in a hard, plastic chair on the other side of the desk while David Levy enjoyed the comfort of a new leather version.

  “Talked to your girlfriend lately?” Levy asked.

  Omar jumped out of his chair, anger pulsing through him. It had been months since Mia had left him for Levy, but Omar was still angry about it.

  “Relax. I’m only kidding.” Levy raised a hand, half in defense and half in what might be an apology, but the smirk didn’t leave his face. As Omar sat down again, Levy said, “I could take that personally, you know, and write you up.”

  “I’m already on ‘plan.’ ”

  Levy scoffed. “I know. I know. Just trying to prevent a scrimmage, although it might be interesting to see who wins. Not enough room in this office anyhow.”

  Levy knew very well that this office was better than the cube Omar was assigned to. Omar should have been promoted, but instead the intelligence department had brought in this hotshot six months ago. And Levy’s first action as the new boss? To undermine the contacts Omar had cultivated for years by assigning another agent to several of Omar’s ongoing jobs. Levy also required the agents to file their reports in office after each completed job, which meant hours and hours of mind-numbing paperwork. Omar’s previous boss had written up the reports himself, allowing the agents to focus on fieldwork.

  And the final straw had been when Levy started to flirt with Omar’s girlfriend, another agent in the group, and just like clockwork, within a couple of months, she’d broken things off with Omar.

  Omar couldn’t get Mia to tell him if it was because of Levy, partly because she wasn’t speaking to him, but he still had his suspicions. Omar folded his arms, wishing he could find anything . . . anything that would prove Levy had stolen her. Then he’d beat the man till he couldn’t—

  “Your new orders arrived,” Levy said.

  “In the last five minutes?”

  “Yep. Quite amazing how fast we work, isn’t it?” Levy kept his gaze level, challenging.

  “Too late. I’m putting in my two weeks’ notice.”

  Levy sat unmoved. “Don’t you even want to know where? Or with whom?”

  “Nope.” Omar stood and extended his hand. When Levy didn’t respond, Omar dropped the invitation. “Well, it was nice, uh, working for you, and I’ll just clean out my desk.”

  “Nice try,” Levy said, but the tips of his ears reddened.

  Omar hid a smile. That got to him. He walked out the door, hearing Levy’s voice sail after him. “We’re sending you to Yemen. Flight leaves in twenty-five minutes.”

  Stopping midstride, Omar hesitated. Yemen. That’s where she was. With a groan, he turned and walked back to Levy’s office. He stood in the doorway and faced the idiot.

  Levy stood, chuckling as he smoothed his weasel mustache. “Thought that might change your mind. Before you get too excited, though, you’re on a separate mission from Mia. If you can find a way to contact her, maybe you can meet for . . . coffee . . . although I’m sure you’ll try to get a lot more out of her than that.”

  Deep breaths, Omar commanded himself. “My two weeks still stands.”

  “All right,” Levy said, waving him off. “Two weeks, and you’ll never have to listen to me again. You’ll get the orders on the plane.” His gaze hardened. “Just don’t screw this one up.”

  Omar left before he did something that might land him in the slammer. His fingers itched to snake around the man’s neck until the absence of air erased all glimmer of life.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Cairo

  In Jade’s rented apartment in the Cairo suburb of Maadi, a strand of hair tickled her neck each time the fan rotated in her direction. Between the odd splay of honking coming from outside and thinking about her conversation with Lucas the night before, she wondered if she’d slept more than an hour.

  A wailing sound came from outside, and Jade rolled over in bed, listening to the haunting melody. The call to prayer. The Muslim world had awakened and begun its holy ritual. She had not paid much attention the night before to the towering mosque near her stacked apartment building.

  She glanced at the digital clock next to her bed. 5:30. Stifling a yawn, she shuffled across the floor and dug through her suitcase for a sports bra. Changing in the morning light that cut gently through the shadowy room, Jade donned her Lycra pants and running shoes and then grabbed a sweatshirt just in case the outside air held a chill. She left the apartment and found the halls empty, except for the dust swept into the corners. Jade volleyed down the stairs, using them as her warm-up.

  Once on the sidewalk, she settled into an easy jog. The air was cool and dry, with a taste of dust, holding the promise of a scorching day. Past the row of apartment buildings and a run-down outside theater, she noticed a few shops with lights on as the owners prepared for opening.

  As she ran, she thought again about Lucas’s words at dinner. They knew Dr. Lyon was close to discovering Queen Nicaula’s burial place, and they killed him for it.

  Her research for her thesis had revealed numerous articles written by archaeologists about the possible location of Ubar, but none had linked it to the queen of Sheba, famous for leaving her exotic homeland to travel the thousands of miles to confer with King Solomon in the tenth century. It was uncertain where the queen’s kingdom was. Three groups of people claimed the queen as their own—the Yemenis, the Egyptians, and the Ethiopians. According to the Yemeni people, the queen was happily settled in Marib, the heart of Yemen. Jade had also done some reading on the case the Ethiopians made for the queen to be their own, yet she’d never paid close attention to those details. Maybe now she should.

  Jade’s breath came harder as Lucas’s words repeated themselves in her head. Something else was found in that tomb—something that will lead us to the queen. The idea was very unsettling, to say the least. Was it possible that evidence had been found that would uncover the queen’s burial site—the woman that scholars believed King Solomon composed his psalms about, referring to Nicaula as the Queen of the South? A woman he was obsessed with and never forgot? A woman that Christians believed was the first female to prophesy of the coming of Jesus Christ, when she had a vision on her way to Jerusalem, in which she saw Christ’s image on a log that would serve as the cross one day?

  Jade wriggled her sweatshirt off and tied it around her waist. The sun had risen, making it too hot to run now.

  She reversed her direction, wondering about the itinerary Dr. Lyon had given her. Various visits to archive centers, a meeting with the Coptic patriarch—now living in exile because of a recent assassination attempt—scheduled field trips to Alexandria and the Red Sea coast . . . all to document the Egyptians’ belief that the queen of Sheba was the daughter of an Egyptian pharaoh. Then she remembered something—a comment Dr. Lyon had made when he handed her the travel packet. “We’ll update the itinerary when we arrive in Cairo.”

  Until now, Jade had assumed some of the scheduling might change, depending on the availability of those they were to meet. Now she sensed this research trip was something altogether different, but what? Was Dr. Lyon leading her on a mission far beyond simple research for a college thesis?

  She ran past a row of Dumpsters and tried not to inhale too deeply. When she cleared the last one, someone g
rabbed her arm. A rush of panic drove through her as she tugged away. She twisted from the firm grip, but before she could cry out, a voice spoke in her ear. “It’s me.”

  Jade spun around and nearly collided with Lucas. She covered her hammering chest. “Lucas?”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “I—what are you doing here so early?”

  “I brought you breakfast. When you didn’t answer the door, I started looking around.” He nodded toward the apartment.

  “I almost . . .” She hesitated, feeling sheepish.

  “Screamed?”

  “Hit you.” She tried to keep the smile from her face.

  “You can never be too careful.”

  Was he referring to himself or to a random attacker? He continued to stare at her until Jade felt self-conscious. Those tawny eyes. She tucked flyaway strands of hair behind her ear and hoped her shirt wasn’t soaked too much with perspiration—unless it was just enough to look like the women on Reebok commercials. “I should have brought Mace,” she said.

  His eyebrow lifted. “Now that would have been interesting.” His gaze trailed downward. “It might be a good idea, if you plan on wearing that in public every morning.” His eyes locked with hers for a moment, and Jade forgot to breathe. Then he turned and started walking in the direction of her building.

  Jade glanced down and saw that her sweatshirt had slipped below her hips and her cropped T-shirt sat just above her navel. She sighed and retied the sweatshirt around her waistline, hiding all exposed skin. I’m such an idiot. Then she hurried to catch up to Lucas. Seeing his hands empty, she asked, “Well, where’s breakfast?”

  “In your apartment.” His brow creased. “You left the door unlocked.”

  Jade followed him up the stairs, wondering how she could have left the door unlocked. They passed a young man coming down, who cast admiring glances in Jade’s direction. She instinctively wrapped her arms about her torso.

  “You might want to make sure nothing’s missing,” Lucas said as they reached the third landing.

  Jade’s heart skipped a beat as she considered the possibility. Stopping in front of her room, she turned the handle on the door and stepped into the quiet apartment. First, she checked her bag for her wallet. Still there. Nothing was ruffled, nothing disturbed. The senses in her nose tingled, and she glanced at the newspaper-wrapped sandwich on the nightstand.

  “Falafel,” Lucas said from the doorway. “It should still be warm.”

  She took a breathless peek underneath the bed. She straightened and turned toward Lucas. “Everything looks fine.”

  “Good. I’ll wait out here while you change.” He took a step away from the door, hesitating. “Oh, and Jade? My friends call me Luc.”

  He pulled the door shut, and Jade found herself standing alone in the dim room. “Am I your friend, Luc?” she whispered as she crossed to the windows and opened the blinds. Sunlight burst in, revealing dancing particles of dust. It was time to focus on her thesis, and if that meant blocking everything else out, so be it.

  She made her way into the bathroom, stripping off the sweat-drenched clothing, then placing her mood ring on the corner of the sink. It was red. Excited. No, energized. And that’s because I just worked out. She opened the mottled shower door and gasped as two rust-colored cockroaches scuttled across the stained tile and disappeared down the drain. She backed out of the bathroom, wrapping her nakedness in her arms, and slipped on her sandals.

  Once her feet were safely protected, she entered the shower again. Letting the water trickle across her shoulders, she pushed thoughts of “Luc” from her mind and of how much time he might have spent in her apartment during her absence.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Qarn al-Asad, Yemen

  Perspiration soaked through Alem’s thin cotton shirt and the sun’s heat scorched his black skin. Raising his eyes to scan the clear sky, he cursed. My luck that Yemen is having its biggest heat wave ever. Fresh from Ethiopia, Alem Eshete had signed on with a Yemeni excavation crew for the chance to earn money for next fall’s tuition at Addis Ababa University. At least that’s what he’d told his parents. Premed wasn’t cheap. Neither was his father’s ailing health, and his track scholarship covered only fifty percent.

  “Yallah!” the crew boss screeched.

  Alem increased his pace, loading the broken cement into a wheelbarrow. He had the body of an athlete and could probably outrun any man on the crew, but the heat was a fierce taskmaster. He glanced at the man who worked next to him: Omar, a quiet man in his midthirties. They had become fast friends.

  “Tonight,” Omar whispered. “We’ll break out the flask.”

  Alem cast a furtive glance at the crew boss, then grinned at his friend. “It’ll be a welcome treat after today.” Omar had impressed him with his command of English and Arabic. He even spoke a little Amharic, Alem’s native tongue. “The others will be envious.”

  “That’s why we’ll wait until they’re all asleep,” Omar said.

  Something to look forward to in this hellish heat. Alem grunted as he lifted a large slab, filling the wheelbarrow to capacity. Then he guzzled water as Omar wheeled the cement to the sorting yard. Trying to justify why he stood in scorching heat, digging up rocks and broken cement, Alem thought back to three months ago when his grandmother sent him a letter. Before he’d had the chance to ask her about it, she’d died. His grandfather had given him some of her books, but it was the letter Alem cherished the most.

  He kept the letter in his travel bag, tucked between the pages of his well-worn Bible. One line in particular continued to haunt him: Find Queen Makeda; she will redeem our past. The letter even included a strange poem about the queen. Wanting to grant his grandmother’s wish, he’d applied for the excavation job as soon as the semester ended.

  The unmerciful heat blurred his vision for a moment as he closed his eyes, thinking about his heritage—the legends he’d been taught since birth. He was a descendent of the great Queen Makeda—known as the queen of Sheba to the rest of the world. In another country, he might be considered a prince, but his family had branched far and wide, diluting him to one of dozens. Regardless, a movement throughout Ethiopia by government loyalists decried any “inherited” power that a royal descendent might obtain.

  Although some Ethiopians insisted the queen was buried in their homeland, over the past few years, several articles had been published suggesting that her burial site was located somewhere in Yemen. If a location could ever be locked down, scholars would set out to disclaim that she’d ever lived in Ethiopia, and the entire royal dynasty would be in question.

  And the government loyalists would win. Since receiving his grandmother’s letter, Alem had started reading archaeology journals with great interest. That’s when he’d learned one thing—finding the queen’s tomb was a long shot.

  But what if he did? What if he discovered evidence that she was a native of Ethiopia and his family was proved to be the true royal descendants? Well, his financial burdens might be eased a little—to say the least. He looked about him, scanning the other crew members. He’d yet to learn all their names, but he sensed they were starting to trust him for his hard work. Soon, he’d ask them about the biblical queen.

  I’ll find her, somehow. I owe it to my people.

  His friend returned and picked up his chisel. Omar was on the thin side and five foot ten at the most, but his strength was far from lacking. They continued working in silence so as not to attract the attention of the crew boss. Tonight, I’ll ask Omar what he knows.

  Omar dropped his chisel, and Alem turned. The man’s mouth hung open, and saliva dribbled down his chin.

  “Sit,” Alem urged, easing him to the dusty ground. The excavation of the ancient church site had taken more time than the cranky crew boss had forecasted. Already te
nsions were high among the workforce, and any illness or mishap would only add to the delay. Omar’s head lolled against the stone wall, his eyes staring ahead, focusing on nothing.

  Alem pressed a water bottle to Omar’s lips. “Drink this.”

  A shadow crossed behind his back.

  “What’s wrong with him?” the crew boss asked in broken English.

  “Overheated . . . He’ll be fine soon.”

  The boss hesitated, and Alem braced himself for the worst.

  “Find him some shade,” the boss said.

  “Thank you,” Alem said, and then turned to Omar. “Let’s go, my friend.” He wrapped Omar’s arm around his shoulders and helped him stagger to his feet.

  Reluctantly, Alem left Omar propped against an acacia tree and returned to the work site. His worry for the man outweighed even the irritation of the constant flies that vied for position on his flesh. The work was tedious as he chiseled away the loose rock and cement, loaded the wheelbarrow, and then pushed the barrow to the sorting site and sifted through the debris in search of anything valuable. Bits of pottery, the shaft of a dagger, remnants of cloth—all had to be turned in to the boss. Every so often, Alem craned to see how his friend fared, but as the sun settled behind the cragged horizon, Omar still remained in one position.

  A shout reverberated through the ruins, signaling the end of another workday. Alem wheeled his half-loaded wheelbarrow up the temporary slope. It was then that he saw two men carrying Omar’s limp body to the truck.

  Abandoning his wheelbarrow, Alem stumbled forward. “Wait!” But just as he reached the truck, the bald tires spun, and a column of dust separated him from his friend. Shaking his head, Alem walked toward the group of acacias that had so recently shaded Omar. Alem placed his hand on the gnarled trunk, staring at the ground with regret. I should have demanded immediate medical attention. Then he saw a thick leather pouch nestled in the spiky grass. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he picked up the bag and opened it, anticipating a couple of pictures and maybe an identification card belonging to Omar.