Finding Sheba (Omar Zagouri Thriller Book 1)

by H. B. Moore

  “Is there anything there to protect us?”

  “No.” He took a quick glance behind and saw that the other vehicle was getting too close. Its headlights distorted the ground around them.

  “Then stop! We won’t be able to lose them. Look around us. There’s nowhere to hide.”

  He scoffed. “Have you written your obituary?”

  “I mean it. Stop!” Mia grabbed his arm. “I have a plan.”

  “A plan to get us killed,” Omar said, not letting up on the gas.

  Her grip tightened. “Trust me.”

  “Funny you should ask me to trust you.” He released his deathlike hold on the steering wheel and coasted the jeep to a stop. He turned to Mia, taking in her windblown hair and fiery eyes. “This better be good.”

  “It is.” She pulled her backpack from the rear seat and stuffed the pack underneath her shirt, stretching the cloth over the bulk. She adjusted the backpack so her belly looked very large, then slumped against the door. “Pretend I’m pregnant and I’m about to deliver your baby. Demand a doctor.”

  He waited for the battered truck to reach them. Three men piled out, all armed, all wearing the black-and-white-checked kaffiyehs.

  Omar raised his hands and yelled, “My wife is having a child! My wife is having a child!”

  Mia started to moan, playing the part well.

  One of the men stepped cautiously forward and peered at Mia. He nodded to his companions then looked at Omar. “This is why you took our jeep?”

  “Yes, I needed to get my wife help.”

  Mia cried out, and the man jumped back, looking at Omar. “You come with us. You should not be around a woman like this.”

  Omar grimaced. Foolish desert traditions. How was he going to get out of this one? “Uh—”

  “No!” Mia screamed, real perspiration on her face. “He stays with me. The djinns will take my baby if I’m left alone.”

  What in the—? The men drew back, their eyes wide at the mention of djinns. All Omar knew was that djinns were spirits that supposedly haunted frankincense trees and protected ancient ruins. But hey, if it works . . .

  “All right, all right,” the man said. “We’ll be back soon with the midwife.”

  Omar stared at the receding truck as it hurtled bits of sand and dirt into the night air. He turned to her and mirrored her contagious smile. “Djinns? How’d you come up with that?”

  She ignored the question.

  “How far now?” she asked.

  Omar pointed toward the horizon. The silhouette of an oasis could be distinguished in the distance against the moon.

  Mia clutched the backpack against her chest as if to protect her from the night air.

  They neared the campsite, its scraggly palms bending in the desert wind. As Omar remembered, the outhouse stood prominently at the center of the camp. Not far from that was an old well with stagnated water hardly fit for an animal. He brought the jeep to a stop. “After you,” he said, motioning toward the privy. Without hesitation, Mia hurried toward the small building. Like a true veteran. Not even a squat pot could deter this woman.

  After he took his turn in the rank facility, he joined Mia at the side of the jeep, where she handed him bottled water.

  “Thanks,” he said, then gulped nearly half of the bottle in one swallow. His throat wanted more, but he decided to hold off and save it for later. “I’ll start digging.” Next to the first tree, he stooped and began to dig with his hands.

  “Want to use this?” Mia asked, standing over him.

  Omar glanced up and saw a small utility shovel in her hand.

  “Thanks. My supply pouch was stolen.”

  “Of course it was.”

  He grasped the tool, refusing to be cowed by her. Maybe being kidnapped hadn’t been so bad. He didn’t know which was worse—being tied up in a small room or being chewed out by his ex-girlfriend. “Don’t you have someplace to be?”

  “Very funny. How about we let headquarters know you’re still alive? Then you can worry about my plans.”

  Omar’s shovel reached two feet, but still there was nothing. He sat back on his heels and wiped the gritty perspiration from his face.

  “Are you sure—” she started.

  “Yes. Just use yours to relay the good news. Then you can take the jeep back to Yemen.”

  “And leave you here alone with nothing?”

  Omar rose and folded his arms. “I’ll hook up with another crew.” He knew it sounded ludicrous, but he wanted to see her reaction. “And I’ll enjoy some peace in the meantime.”

  Mia’s eyes flamed. She turned away and started toward the jeep, hair bouncing against her shoulders in defiance. “I want the shovel back when you’re done!” she said over her shoulder.

  “The sooner I finish, the sooner you can leave,” Omar called after her. He started to dig again. Quiet at last. She didn’t have claim on his feelings anymore, so he didn’t care if he’d sounded rude. He glanced in her direction. She sat in the jeep, arms crossed, waiting. The shovel struck something solid, and soon he had removed the waterproof case containing his things. But instead of returning immediately to the jeep, he pulled out the phone and turned it on. He leaned against a tree and waited for the connection. After a minute, he typed his message: Separated from the crew. Mia found me. What are the next instructions?

  Several minutes passed before the reply from David Levy came. Don’t get too excited. You lost her long before she left.

  Omar’s hand tightened around the phone, threatening to crush the innocent device. Just as he was about to reply with every curse word invented, the coordinates for his next assignment popped onto the tiny screen. He read the message. “Unbelievable.”

  He straightened and walked slowly back to the jeep. Mia kept her head turned the other way, but he saw the same location flickering on her handheld instrument.

  “I guess we’re in this together,” he mumbled, starting the engine.

  According to the coordinates on the GPS feature, they were only a half day’s drive from the edge of the infamous Empty Quarter—but that wasn’t close enough. He was driving a stolen jeep, and any moment, the Arabs could be returning with a midwife in tow. And there were at least a dozen toll stops to slow them down.

  “Got any money?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Mia replied in a tight voice, keeping her eyes averted. “Let me guess—yours was stolen, lost, burned, or shredded.”

  “Something like that.”

  It was going to be a very long ride.

  CHAPTER

  14

  The Empty Quarter

  Staring into the murky darkness of the tent, Alem let out a frustrated sigh. After he’d discovered the sword hilt the day before, the digging turned into a frenzy. Stray pieces of discolored metal were found, but nothing so specific as the decorated hilt. An archaeologist arrived in the early evening hours and estimated the artifact to the eighth or ninth century BC. If the man was right, the discovery could be a major find indeed. When Alem had asked the archaeologist about the symbol of the snake and flower, he’d confirmed it might represent the pagan goddess `Ashtartu. The archaeologist also pointed out that some thought the queen of Sheba was a reincarnated form of `Ashtartu.

  It doesn’t make sense. Why would his grandmother’s headstone depict the same symbol? If the symbol belonged to the queen, how could it exist in two completely different countries? He wished he could call his grandfather and ask him. His family had professed Christianity ever since Queen Makeda had been converted to Solomon’s god. His grandmother had told him the story of how Makeda had cast her nature-worshipping aside when she realized the sun could not be so powerful if it could be blotted out by a flock of birds.

  Most of the lore surrounding the queen of Sheba was too fantastic for even a man of religious faith to believe. Let alone me,
since I don’t know what I believe. Her supposed goat legs and cloven feet led to other myths depicted in art around the world. A statue at Dijon’s St. Bénigne cathedral showed the queen with gooselike feet. Even more preposterous was the claim that Solomon had had the hair removed from her legs before bedding her. What Hebrew man, ancient or modern, cared about hair on a woman’s legs?

  Alem heard the arrival of another vehicle. A second expert in ancient artifacts? He exited his tent. At the edge of the camp, the crew boss stood next to a Land Rover with a man dressed in a police uniform.

  Maybe his boss would be arrested for the murder of his assistant. Then Alem saw that the conversation was friendly. When Rabbel noticed Alem, he and the officer moved toward him. Introductions were made, and the officer heartily shook hands with Alem. “You are the one who made the discovery?”

  “Yes.” Alem looked from one man to the other, not sure if being the object of their interest was a good thing.

  “Very nice.” The officer looked at Rabbel and gave a brief nod.

  Rabbel said, “You will come with us tomorrow—to another site. We’ve just received permission to excavate in Oman. The rest of the crew will remain here.”

  Alem stiffened. The last thing he wanted to do was travel to another country with these men. “My visa is good only for this country.”

  The officer winked. “Don’t worry about that.”

  As Alem walked back to his tent, fear gripped him. He had no defenses against a man who killed and an officer of the law—or the lawless. Desperately, he thought of stealing a truck and leaving—or even taking a bag of food and jogging away in the moonlight. He’d be able to clock at least ten miles before sunrise, but common sense told him he’d be fine as long as he did his job. He shook his head at the thought of another wild ride through the desert. He’d come across the sword hilt by chance, and he didn’t want to be singled out from the other workers.

  Entering the tent, he settled onto his hard bed. He closed his eyes, thinking about his grandmother’s letter. Find Queen Makeda. If one good thing came from this new change, it might be that it would bring him closer to the discovery of the queen. If nothing else, at the end of it all, he hoped the paycheck would be worth the trouble.

  Morning came too soon, and Alem felt a boot at his side, rousing him from sleep. Rabbel stood over him. “Pack your things. We leave immediately.”

  As the boss left, Alem scrambled to his feet and shoved everything he had into his duffle bag. He rolled his sleeping bag and secured it, with the pillow tucked beneath the ties. He glanced at the Yemeni who shared the tent. The man’s snores indicated that his dreams hadn’t been interrupted by the disturbance.

  “Good-bye,” Alem whispered with a halfhearted wave in the man’s direction. He moved to the campfire and gulped down a cup of bitter coffee. He grabbed a flat pita and gnawed at one end, feeling sand grate against his teeth. No matter how long I stay on the crew, I doubt I’ll ever get used to the bleak menu, he thought as he moved to the waiting Land Rover.

  Alem settled against the already warm seat in the back of the Land Rover as they traveled into the rising sun, speeding across the desert floor. The dunes continued to tower on the north side, and a collection of wadis rushed by on the south. Time passed in a blur—hot wind preventing any real conversation. Hours into the drive, he sank against his duffel bag and tried to nap. The lull of the humming tires and the driving wind eventually gave him rest.

  As the evening sun pushed at their backs, Alem woke and noticed the changed landscape. A few palms dotted the terrain, and groves of brush had crept up. The SUV slowed, and Alem straightened in his seat. He leaned out his window, trying to make out the curious shapes in the distance.

  “Shisur,” Rabbel shouted over the engine by way of explanation. “An oasis with structures built thousands of years ago.”

  “We’re already in Oman, then?” Alem asked.

  “Yes,” the officer said. He slowed the Land Rover another notch. His voice carried easily into the backseat now. “This oasis is part of the region of Ubar. And here, because of your good fortune in finding the ancient sword, you’ll be able to scare the djinns from their hiding places and discover their secrets about the queen.”

  Alem’s grandmother had told him that djinns could be evil spirits or demons that protected sacred ground. They lived in frankincense trees, and the superstitious used to make offerings to the spirits before they collected the resin. Fables alleged the queen of Sheba had a djinn for a mother. “How am I to do this?”

  Rabbel’s eyes glinted. “By performing an ancient rite.”

  It was probably lighting some candles and saying prayers, Alem decided. Or a maqyal ceremony, and they’d sit around chewing qat.

  When they stopped at Shisur, the three men set to work raising a tent. From across the collection of ruins, Alem saw a cluster of homes forming a small village of sorts. Those in the settlement paid no attention to the men setting up camp on the other side of the ruins.

  Darkness advanced over the ancient land as Rabbel built a fire. Dinner was light fare, consisting of dried meat, pita, and a few nearly spoiled tomatoes.

  “Tomorrow we start digging?” Alem asked, surveying the men across the glow of the fire.

  “It depends,” the officer said.

  “Are we waiting for others to show up?”

  Rabbel stood, and the officer followed. They walked around the campfire toward Alem. He started to rise too, but the officer pushed him to the ground.

  “Hey,” Alem said. “What’s going—”

  The officer’s hands clapped around his neck. Alem tried to twist away. Grabbing the officer’s wrists, Alem clawed at the man’s hands, looking to Rabbel for help. But Rabbel was suddenly on top of him, pinning him to the ground. Alem struggled, but the pressure on his neck increased, and soon his vision went black.

  When Alem regained consciousness, the first thing he was aware of was the aching stiffness and cold in his limbs. He stared wildly into the darkness, trying to gain his bearings. He couldn’t see the moon or stars, so he concluded he was inside the tent. Ropes dug into his mouth, wrists, and ankles. He wriggled against the bindings, feeling the pain radiate from his neck to his mouth. Moaning, he tried to sit up, but he had no way of supporting himself. He felt cool sand beneath his skin and realized he’d been stripped to his underwear.

  Something pricked his leg, and Alem stiffened. When the sensation passed, he wondered if it was his imagination. He’d heard enough tales of scorpions and snakes.

  A forlorn melody, sounding like a flute, floated from somewhere. He smelled smoke—probably from a campfire. A maniacal laugh rang from outside, blending with the melody.

  Then a gust of wind burst against his exposed skin, and his senses screamed into action.

  “Look. He’s awake.” Rabbel’s voice.

  Hands gripped Alem’s arms and dragged him out of the tent. He twisted, using a burst of energy, but Rabbel and the officer laughed.

  Alem struggled with fury. “Let me go!”

  Rabbel laughed again. “Tonight you’ll be our gift to the djinns, and in return, we’ll find the queen.”

  The men dragged him toward the fire. The melody grew louder, and Alem craned his head to see where it was coming from. Beyond the reach of the firelight sat a row of straggly Bedu men—inhabitants of the desert—their faces mere skeletons, skin stretched tight over their prominent bones. Wiry hair grew from their chins, reaching to the middle of their chests. The lyrical notes soared into the air, becoming more pronounced, more frenzied.

  The officer held a flaming torch close to Alem’s face, and he felt his eyebrows singe. He cried out, but the other men just laughed.

  Then in one motion, he was dropped to the ground, face up. Hands seemed to come out of nowhere, pinning him down. “Don’t move,” the officer growled. He removed the long dagger from hi
s belt and pressed it against Alem’s neck. With a sharp pain, Alem’s skin sliced open beneath the pressure, and warm blood slipped along his collarbone. The knife moved to his shoulder and cut again. Alem tried to scream, but a piece of cloth was shoved into his mouth. Haziness clouded his eyes as he hovered between consciousness and unconsciousness.

  Before Alem passed into oblivion, he saw Rabbel’s face inches away, a smaller knife in his hand.

  The cutting had already begun.

  CHAPTER

  15

  East of Saba, Yemen

  963 BC

  As the fingers of dawn stretched across the horizon, Nicaula adjusted the leather breastplate against her torso. Her army of three thousand was in position, stationed around the low-lying hills just outside of Saba. It had taken nearly two moons to assemble her militia, but even if Azhara had perished, the revenge would reach gloriously toward heaven, where the maid’s soul would dwell for suffering a martyr’s death.

  The city of Saba still slept, its night guards sluggish at their posts. Through her spies, Nicaula had learned the guard change occurred just before daybreak—when they planned to infiltrate the city. Nicaula mounted her mare, then adjusted her headdress, since she wouldn’t wear her crown until victory was assured. The delicate silk weave of the scarf was intertwined with fine pearls, but her real treasure would be rescuing Azhara—with the marauders found and punished and the ring of Sheba recovered.

  Guiding her mare, Nicaula approached the frontline, where Batal sat on his horse at the helm, perfectly poised, his expression filled with all the seriousness his youth could muster. After his fearless protection of her, Nicaula had elevated him to commander. Lined up behind Batal, the other soldiers sat on their beasts. The soldiers bowed their heads as she rode among them, inspecting their uniforms and weapons. Win or lose, the sight of her army would be great to behold.