by H. B. Moore
From somewhere outside, Omar heard voices. It had to be Rabbel’s men. He knew that as soon as he let on that he was awake, he would be questioned and, most likely, brutally tortured. AWP was famous for getting what they wanted by any means necessary. He’d heard the stories from others in his field who had been hostages, and some said that it was only a matter of time before it was his turn.
Apparently it had come.
Omar tried to wriggle off the mattress, deciding there had to be a way out of this mess. His tied ankles slipped to the floor, thumping loudly. Damn.
The voices stopped, and he held his breath. Then the lock in the door slid open, and a waft of fresh air passed over his face. A man stood in the entryway, and beyond, Omar saw the figures of several others. The first thing he noticed was their black-and-white-checked kaffiyehs, the colors signifying they weren’t Rabbel’s men after all. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.
“Water?” Omar asked in a hoarse voice.
Someone called for water.
Suddenly hands grabbed his arms and jerked him up until he was sitting awkwardly on the bed. A cold metal cup was pressed to his mouth, and as he gulped the stale liquid, he studied his captors with his one good eye. All he could see of their faces were their black eyes. Rifles gripped in their hands, the four men pressed forward as a unit as rapid Arabic was hurled in his direction.
“Your name?” a gangly man on the right demanded.
“Where are you from?” another said, raising his rifle. “What are you doing at Qarn al-Asad?”
“I’m Omar. I was left behind by my work crew.”
The captors exchanged doubtful glances. “Who’s your boss?” one asked.
Omar relaxed a little. These men had nothing on him and using Rabbel’s name might give him an advantage. “Rabbel.” Instinct told him they weren’t the ones who’d found his IDs. If so, he wouldn’t be alive to answer so many questions.
Two of the men left the room and argued fiercely with each other while the other two trained their rifles on him. By mentioning Rabbel’s name, Omar was settling his fate—for better or worse. Was the crew boss their friend or enemy?
“What did you find?” the first man asked.
“Nothing,” Omar said.
The man gripped the nape of Omar’s neck. “How long have you worked for Rabbel?”
“A few days.”
The other two men came into the room and stared intently at Omar. The first Arab let go of Omar’s neck. “Why were you left behind?”
Omar winced at the pain in his neck. “I fainted.”
The men looked at each other and laughed. “He fainted,” one said, and the laughter started again.
The first man leaned toward Omar. “You do not have permission to step on Bilqis’s land.”
Omar hung his head, feigning contrition. “I didn’t know. I was just waiting for my crew.”
After a moment of discussion, one of the men announced, “We will feed him until Rabbel pays.”
I guess I’ll be here a while. This part of the country was filled with tribes that would do almost anything to scrape out a living. Omar watched them leave. He didn’t trust these men. Just as he didn’t trust David Levy—and Levy was supposed to be one of the good guys. Omar stared at the water-stained ceiling above. He had to return to the campsite where he’d buried his satellite phone. It was the only secure way to contact his superiors for help. It also had a GPS tracker, which would come in handy about now.
A commotion arose from outside, and Omar tensed. The door burst open, and one of the men entered, holding a plastic container.
“Eat.” The man left the bowl on the mattress.
When the door shut, Omar rotated to his knees until he knelt over the bowl. Couscous. It was still warm. Hands tied behind his back, he devoured the food like a common animal, acquiescing to the fact that his dignity had fled the moment of his capture.
As the shadows in his room deepened into night, Omar kept his gaze on the high window covered with chicken wire. It was too small to crawl through, but watching the moonlight splash in gave him some connection with the outside world. When the noises from the other room stopped, he began the laborious task of contorting his arms against the ropes, hoping to loosen them.
After several moments, he rested against the ticking, his arms and wrists throbbing. He had two choices: wait to see what happened or try to escape.
With renewed determination, Omar wriggled against the ropes, wishing he’d studied Houdini’s tactics to fit his body through his looped arms. He slid to the ground, eyeing the thin bulge in his pocket below his knees. His carpenter-style jeans might prove useful after all. Since his patch days, he’d kept the last lighter from his final cigarette. It had become a badge of achievement—a lucky memento now.
It’s time to cash in the luck. Rolling onto his side again, he stretched his leg back toward his tied hands. He groped frantically at his pant leg, but he could touch just his lower calf . . . not high enough. Omar worked his way into a sitting position and pulled his knees to his chest. Leaning forward, he used his teeth to open the pocket. Then he rocked onto his back, lifting his leg in the air and shaking it. The lighter slid out and landed next to his head.
Please work. It hadn’t been used for six years. Omar lifted the lid and then flicked the tab over and over. He wasn’t certain when the first flame ignited, but he knew when it started licking his skin. He gritted his teeth against the searing pain as the flames gnawed the rope. Finally he could no longer stand it, and he leaped toward the bed and pressed his hands against the mattress. In an instant, the fire extended its grasp, and the mattress started to burn. He fell against the floor and rubbed the knotted rope in the layer of dust, putting out the last of the flames that singed his wrists. He scrambled to his feet and delivered a kick at the door, yelling, “Naar! Naar!” Fire!
The door shoved open, and the captors stared in confusion at the burning mattress. Shouting erupted. Omar eased his way past the chaos. Just as he reached the outside door, he managed to work one hand free from the charred rope. He moved through the opening and groped his way through the courtyard.
For a breathless instant, he stood behind a tall, wide palm, expecting one of the men to appear. Then Omar eyed the heavy metal gate that separated the living quarters from the street. He was certain it would screech when opened, but climbing would take precious time—time in which a bullet could make his body its home. As smoke billowed from the storage room, Omar moved to the gate and slipped out.
“Stenna!”
But Omar didn’t stop; he scurried across the street and plunged into a narrow alleyway. He sprinted along the road, the unpaved rocks stabbing his bare feet. The pale light from the moon cast unearthly patches throughout the alley as shouting reverberated off the walls, telling Omar his captors followed. Up ahead he saw something looming—a garbage bin—and not far from that, the street opened into another courtyard and another gate.
He draped his shirt over the top of the metal prongs, then returned to the garbage bin. Climbing inside, he pulled a soggy piece of cardboard over his head. While footsteps rushed past, Omar fought the bile rising in his throat as he tried not to inhale the smell of rotting food.
Don’t retch.
The gate squealed open, and the footsteps faded.
Now.
Omar climbed out of the Dumpster, wincing as his hand slipped on the oozing grime. He turned away from the courtyard with the open gate and ran back along the alleyway. It would take them only a few seconds to realize they’d missed him.
Suddenly something crashed against the side of his head. The sound pummeled his ears as pain simultaneously burst through his temple, and for a split second, he wondered if he’d been shot. He whirled around and saw his attacker holding a raised AK-47.
Omar lunged forward and wrestled for the rifle. The
man was strong, but he was not desperate like Omar, who jerked his elbow and pummeled the man underneath the chin. Gasping, the man fell to his knees. Omar grabbed the gun with two hands and thrust the butt into the Arab’s stomach, and the man collapsed onto the ground.
“No offense, but I have someplace to go.” Omar pulled the rifle away and moved into the street. A quick scan told him it was deserted. He turned north and started a dead run, but over his footfalls he heard shouting. The Arabs had discovered his trick.
Then he saw it: a rusted jeep.
Omar volleyed into the vehicle and tossed the rifle onto the passenger seat. He deftly hot-wired the starter and then waited for the spark. At least my field training is becoming useful in my last week of employment. Perspiration trickled down his face while he waited for the spark. The jeep started with a roar, and Omar cranked the wheel to the left. With one glance behind, he floored the accelerator.
CHAPTER
12
Ar Rub’ Al Khãlĩ, Arabia
964 BC
Nicaula held the scepter above her head, and the royal caravan came to a halt. More than a hundred camels traveled in the party, carrying baggage. Servants walked on foot alongside an army of fifty soldiers riding on horses. The queen tipped her head in reverence toward the western sun—goddess `Ashtartu. Nicaula turned and scanned the direction from which her caravan had come, catching a glimpse of the oasis they had left that morning. Then her gaze moved to the north.
The party stood along the edge of the High Sands—a wasteland bearing the secrets of thousands of years. Nicaula knew this part of Arabia, for she had traveled here with her father. It was a land without rain where men and beast died an equal death, a land that was no respecter of persons. Only the cold marked the sand’s drift into winter, and the heat, the frail bloom of summer.
As she gazed at the rising dunes, ranging in color from pale saffron to deep scarlet, her heart hardened like the cruel desert. As with the parched Arabian sands, life had taken nourishment from her. She touched her necklace, reminding her of the price her father had paid.
Three servants moved from the front of the caravan and stood before her. For one moon, they had been tracking the marauders who had taken the king’s life. “O Queen,” one said, “what is your command?”
What would my father do? “Look out there.” Nicaula moved her arm in a semicircle. “Is it not unusually quiet? Not even a crow, nor lame hare, moves about the landscape.”
One of the servants crouched to the ground, squinting at the markings in the sand.
“Rona, how long ago did you lose them?” Nicaula asked.
Rona slowly rose, keeping his head lowered and his gaze beneath Nicaula’s penetrating stare. “The oasis. The tracks ended there.”
“If you are lying to your queen, you will lose your life,” she said, not bothering to mask her vehemence. “Down!” she commanded her camel, and it obediently lumbered into a sitting position. She climbed off the animal and strode toward the desert rise as her maidservant, Azhara, fell into step behind her. Bending forward against the slope, Nicaula climbed the first dune.
The sand fell away beneath her sandals, creating rivulets of moving grains from each step. Several dozen soldiers skirted the base of the dune, but she kept climbing, setting a fierce pace. Once Nicaula crested the top, she knelt on the soft precipice. Azhara caught up to her, her breathing labored.
“There.” Nicaula pointed eastward. “That oasis contains the last evidence of the marauders. To the north lies the endless desert, and to the south, Al Mahrah Plateau. They could not have traveled too far north,” she mused. “Perhaps they make their camp near a wadi on the south side.”
Azhara touched Nicaula’s arm. “Look.” As the sun made its final descent behind the horizon of dunes, a shimmering form appeared against the ginger sky. “Smoke.”
Blood rushed through Nicaula’s limbs until she thought her heart would boil in its own anger. “It is they.” Rising to her feet, she stood for a long moment, staring, touching her necklace, and tracing the flower-and-snake etching with her finger. “They are foolish—foolish to make fire and lead us to their hiding place. Fools to trespass on my land. And fools enough to kill a king.”
Azhara looked past Nicaula, her expression abandoned to thought.
“What is it, woman?” Nicaula asked. “Speak at once.”
“Perhaps they want to be found.”
“Perhaps. They may thirst for blood. Nevertheless, they will meet Maniya—goddess of death—tonight.”
Hours later, Nicaula ordered her men to prepare for battle. All activities were hushed. Even the beasts seemed to respect the need for quiet. She paced outside her tent, then moved through the soldiers, checking on their preparations.
Then Nicaula saw him—the unusually tall soldier who had caught her attention the day before. He bowed his head as she approached. She took note of every detail, from his laced leather sandals to the curved dagger at his waist and the worn turban neatly tied about his head. A few ebony curls had escaped it, his full cheeks betraying his youth.
The soldier made a move to sink to his knees, but Nicaula reached her hand out to stay him. “What is your name?”
“Batal, son of Asad.”
Nicaula recognized the name Asad—he had been a loyal servant to her father. “Your father was a great warrior.”
Batal dipped his head in acknowledgment, still not meeting her gaze.
If she could trust this man as her father had trusted his father . . . She now knew why this young man had piqued her curiosity. Her father had often told her that the most precious resources might come in the form of one stalwart servant. Choose him, Nica, she could almost hear her father say. Trust him. She looked at the soldier, liking what she saw. “Follow me.”
Silent as an ibex, Nicaula wove her way along a narrow pass that divided a row of dunes—straight for the marauders’ camp. If a surprise attack occurred, only one man would be there to defend her. The scent reached her before the sounds did. She slowed her step, and behind her, Batal paused, his nostrils quivering.
Chanting accompanied the rank odor, low and heinous.
With each step, the chanting grew louder until it pulsated through her blood and thumped its way into her heart. For an instant she regretted bringing the young soldier, wondering if the upcoming sight would be too much for him to bear.
Nicaula stopped, compelled to say something to Batal, but when their eyes met, she saw the determination in his eyes—neither life nor death mattered.
They continued until they saw an orange glow ahead. Nicaula turned to the nearest dune and began to climb while Batal kept pace with precision. The chanting seemed to surround them, possess them, and soon she reached the mountainous summit of sand.
At first Nicaula could barely distinguish the dancing forms that appeared to be half men, half beasts surrounding the great fire. Then she recognized the dark ridges of the curved horns, the reddish-brown fur, and the white markings on the lifeless faces—the men wore decapitated heads of gazelle. In the firelight, the marauders’ skin glistened with fresh blood, either from self-mutilation or from the recent sacrifice of the beasts.
The chanting rose in pitch and frenzy, and a jolt of dread passed through Nicaula. She remembered seeing such a scene with her father when she was but ten years old. She turned to see Batal, whose eyes widened.
“What are they doing?” he whispered.
“See the skewer?” She pointed toward the fire, where heavy smoke billowed from a blackened carcass. “They thank their gods for their meal.”
“But the gazelle should smell sweet when it’s cooked.”
“Yes, but they aren’t cooking a fallen gazelle. These men are cannibals.”
Her stomach churned as she said the words. The tribesmen who had killed her father were cannibals. And the fact that they had le
ft the murdered people of Sheba to rot on the desert floor was a powerful blow. Their message to the queen was clear—the king of Sheba was not even worthy of their palate.
Nicaula motioned for Batal to follow her, and they descended the face of the dune like sidewinding snakes. The scent of burnt human flesh diminished, and she hoped to purge the images and smells from her mind during the next worship revelry to the sun goddess. At the base of the dune, Batal hesitated, holding his arm in front of her.
“What is it?”
He brought a finger to his lips and remained motionless.
Then Nicaula heard it too. The chanting had changed from praise and celebration to angry cries. “They prepare for battle,” she said. “They must have discovered our presence.”
Batal nodded, his gaze locked with hers.
“We will return and inform the others.” Nicaula took the lead and began to run toward the camp, desperately hoping their warning would be in time. As her feet slapped against the crusted sand, she knew she should order Batal to run ahead and inform the others. But fear pierced her heart at being left alone.
As they plunged forward, the rise and fall of chanting grew closer. It was difficult to gauge the distance of the marauders, but Nicaula knew it couldn’t be long before her caravan’s footprints were spotted. A sharp cry from behind startled her. She slowed and looked around to see Batal heaped upon the ground.
She ran to him, then knelt at his side, seeing the shaft of an arrow protruding between his shoulder blades.
“Run!” he said.
Nicaula hesitated, but then moved to her feet and ran, hunched over, to the base of the next dune. Perched along the ridge of that dune was Batal’s assailant. The man’s bare chest glistened with smeared blood in the moonlight. He removed an arrow from his sling and placed the notched end against the bowstring, taking dead aim at Batal.
