Finding Sheba (Omar Zagouri Thriller Book 1)

by H. B. Moore

  Omar caught a late flight, using the time to sort through the pictures he’d taken of the tomb in Jerusalem. He zoomed in on the strange diagram on the cave wall. It was a drawing of a collection of trees—seven in all. The center tree was unusual, to be sure, the trunk looking like a snake and a flower. Was it the clue to the queen of Sheba’s tomb? He drew a picture of the trunk on his airline napkin. Then he turned it upside down. Nothing. He flipped it over and held it up to the overhead light, staring at it in reverse. If the queen is the flower, who is the snake?

  Leaning against the upholstery, he closed his eyes, trying to remember where he’d seen the symbol before.

  The flight was short, and he arrived in San’ā before the sun. In the predawn hours, he walked through the streets of the capital city, soaking in the buildings and modern conveniences, though no matter how long he spent in this country, he couldn’t get used to the intense heat.

  He crossed Tahrir Square just as the loudspeaker on the al-Mutwakil mosque came to life. The wailing became more insistent—as if beckoning him to worship. I would be considered a heathen within those revered walls. His worship had included only a few synagogue visits with his mother on holidays.

  Omar closed the last hundred meters to the National Museum. A quick glance told him Mia wasn’t waiting outside, so he went in and paid the entrance fee. The nice-looking receptionist smiled brightly at him, and Omar returned the pleasantry.

  He crossed to a set of bronze statues and read the museum inscriptions of the two Yemeni kings, one Dhamar Ali Yahbar, the other, his son, Tha’ran. The second king’s name reminded him of those he had seen on the tomb wall beneath the Jerusalem border. He took out his phone and filed the name away.

  Someone stepped close to him. “Meet me on the second floor.”

  Omar turned and saw Mia’s retreating figure move through the reception hall. Although her curls were covered with a conservative scarf, there was no mistaking her walk. He waited a few minutes then followed.

  On the second floor, six halls branched out—each one devoted to a different era. Omar moved to the first hall but didn’t see Mia. He passed the Al Masnad hall containing ancient writings—one he’d like to explore when time allowed. Passing the Marib hall, he arrived at the Sheba hall. Mia stood by a case containing weapons and ammunition.

  He crossed to her and studied the dilapidated weaponry, but nothing remarkable stood out. “What am I looking for?”

  “You’re looking for what’s not there.”

  Omar breathed in her fresh scent. She’d obviously had a chance to shower and change.

  “Artifacts have been found in Shisur over the past few months—at least, that’s what AWP claims. I’ve read their files and the descriptions of their findings. Several weapons were discovered, examined, cleaned, labeled, and displayed here.” She waved a hand toward the case. “But they aren’t here.”

  “Are you saying AWP has stolen its own findings?”

  “No. I think”—she hesitated, as if unsure of her own theory—“I think AWP hasn’t been excavating at all—or at least it hasn’t made any discoveries.”

  “So what have they been doing in Shisur all this time?” Even as he asked the question, the answer was obvious. “Human sacrifice—for entreating the djinns?”

  “Among other things.” Mia’s soulful eyes met his. “Selling fake artifacts is a lucrative business.”

  His stomach tightened. This operation was getting larger than he expected.

  “We need Alem to identify his captors,” she said.

  “So what do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Find out who originated the reports of the fake artifacts. I also need the name of the man who approved them.”

  “It would have to be someone high up, someone with an influential position in GOAMM.” The General Organization for Antiquities, Manuscripts, and Museums.

  Mia raised a brow. “From what I’ve heard, they treat their jobs like a religion.”

  “Exactly. Perhaps finding out who is the most ‘religious’ will lead us to the right person.”

  A group of students entered the hall, and Omar and Mia drifted apart, each pretending to be lost in study. Question after question pulsed through Omar. How deep did the corruption go? He could only guess at the amount of money it took AWP to bribe someone as devoted as a member of GOAMM. Hundreds of thousands? Millions?

  When the student group filed out, their whispers fading, Omar moved to Mia’s side. “I should make a call to the hospital. It was probably a long night for Alem.”

  Her hand rested on his arm briefly. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  Omar nodded. “Do you have dinner plans?”

  “We still have a lot of work to do.”

  “It will be work related.” He winked at her.

  “All right. I’ll call you later.”

  He grinned. “I’ll be waiting.” Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and strode away. When he passed the front desk, he met the receptionist’s eyes. She smiled at him, and he returned it. In that instant, his plan became laid out. All he needed was one document and one name. And all museums kept documents.

  Exiting the museum, Omar cursed the Yemen heat. Then he cursed Levy for safe measure.

  He put in a call to Salalah Hospital to ensure that Alem was comfortable. The man continued to sleep peacefully, the nurse reported, pain medication coming in regular doses.

  Omar took a taxi to Ali Abdulmoghni Street and checked into the Taj Sheba Hotel. Paying for one night courtesy of Levy, Omar requested a toiletry package. Then he visited the sundry shop and purchased a pair of reading glasses and a sari-like scarf with a tag that said, “Made in India.”

  Once in his room, he showered and dressed, and then removed the nose-hair-trimming scissors and razor from the toiletry pack. For a moment he gazed at his reflection in the fluorescent-lit mirror with the steamy drops sliding along the glass. With slow clips, he lopped off his wavy hair and watched the chunks coil in the sink. He lathered the cheap shaving cream and rubbed it onto his stubbly head.

  No going back now. With careful strokes, he used the razor to remove the rest of the hair. Then he rinsed the cream from his scalp and surveyed the damage. “Not too bad. Now for the mustache.”

  Ten minutes later, he exited his room and started down the hall. With a Koran clutched in his hands, he walked slowly, keeping his eyes to the ground. The sari draped about his shoulders loosely. He took the stairs to the lobby floor, and as he passed through the exit doors, he caught a glimpse of his reflection. Just like a Buddhist monk. A Buddhist carrying the Koran. Not even Mia would recognize me. He kept the book pressed to his chest, covering the gold-embossed title.

  Again he entered the National Museum and adjusted his glasses, the cooled air causing his freshly shaven scalp to tingle. Although he wanted to hurry, he shuffled to the reception desk. The same girl hardly gave him a look as she asked for the entrance fee. When he paid, she let out a yawn and checked her watch.

  He knew without a clock that it was almost 4:45, and the museum would close in fifteen minutes.

  “My name is Govind Dhatri.” He pushed up his glasses again and placed a hand on the counter. “I have an appointment with the curator to look at some manuscripts.”

  The woman met his gaze, her fire-red lips drawn in a disapproving line. “The curator doesn’t come in on Thursdays.”

  “Yes, I know. But I have a special appointment with him at 4:45. Please tell him I’m here.”

  The woman tapped out a few things on her computer’s keyboard. “There’s nothing listed on his schedule. I’m afraid you’ll have to come back in the morning.”

  In his best Indian accent, Omar continued, “No good. I leave on the plane in the morning. I must look at the manuscripts today so I can write a report for my monastery. My organization will not be able to donate
funds if the report is incomplete.”

  The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re a donor?”

  “We’re in negotiations. If my report is favorable, the donation will be quite large.” He lowered his voice. “You wouldn’t want to be the cause of losing a sizable donation.”

  “Let me try his phone.”

  “Of course.”

  She dialed the number and waited for a moment. “No answer.” She hung up, but her expression was less stern than before.

  “Alas, I will have to leave empty-handed.” Omar sighed heavily and turned, shaking his head. “Perhaps you can text him?”

  The woman pulled out her cell and sent a text. While they waited, Omar pretended to answer a call. “Yes, I’m here, but the curator is not, so I cannot complete the research.”

  The woman’s phone buzzed.

  “I’ll call you back,” Omar said into his phone. He looked hopefully at the receptionist.

  “He doesn’t remember an appointment, but he is asking what you need.”

  Omar hid a smile and faced her. “Just to take a few photographs.”

  The woman hesitated only for an instant. She texted the curator again, and within moments she had clearance. She reached for her walkie-talkie and spoke with security. “I’m sending a man up who needs access to the document room. He’s been authorized.” She smiled at Omar. “It’s been arranged.”

  He glanced at her name badge. “Thank you, Ms. Addeen. I’ll not forget your kindness.”

  Her eyes glowed with satisfaction as he bowed and moved away.

  A few minutes later, Omar met the security guard. He kept his gaze lowered and the Koran clutched to his chest as if he couldn’t bear to part with the revered words. He stepped into a long, narrow room with tables jacked into each corner. Hesitating, he glanced about the space, distinctly aware of the security guard’s presence. But Omar couldn’t very well ask the man to leave.

  Adjusting his glasses, he moved to the first table of documents and extracted a metal chair from underneath. The legs scraped painfully against the tiles. He took out a small notebook he’d purchased from the sundry shop and began to scribble notes. Then he snapped a picture of the document in front of him. Leaning forward, he examined the content for a moment, waiting. The security guard remained.

  Moving to the next table, Omar repeated the procedure again. Security or no, nothing had yet caught his interest . . . until he reached the third table. The documents spread across the working area were still covered in crusted sand—an obvious sign that they hadn’t yet been examined for content. Are they from Shisur?

  He snapped a couple of pictures before the guard’s radio came to life. The guard barked a few orders into the receiver, then stepped out of the room.

  Omar flipped off the lights and crossed the room. Crouching in a low cabinet he’d noticed earlier, he pressed against the bulky frame of an old microfiche machine and waited in the cedar interior.

  Several minutes passed. Then the door was thrust open. Light flooded the room, reaching through the cracks in the cabinet doors. Omar heard the heavy tread of shuffling feet pass the cabinet and then pass again.

  The seconds creaked by. Finally the lights clicked off and the door closed.

  Still Omar waited, not daring to crack open even one side of the cupboard. When his watch read 5:30, he pushed the cabinet doors ajar. Then he crept out and stretched his jammed limbs. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he realized that it wasn’t so dark after all. At the far side of the room was a high window through which the late-afternoon sun riddled.

  Omar turned on his flashlight and moved to the third table. He brushed his sleeve against the dried sand particles. He propped his glasses on his head and squinted in the thin beam of light. The language was definitely archaic; he leaned close to analyze the script.

  The faint smell of ink reached his nostrils. A document more than a couple of thousand years old should not smell of ink. Scanning through the papers, he saw the name of Nicaula sprinkled throughout. It was obviously a story written about her, or, if the forgers were really brave, a log written by the queen herself. It wasn’t too far-fetched that a woman with enough power to be a queen would have known how to pen the written word.

  His phone buzzed.

  What time are we meeting for dinner? –M

  Omar smiled and messaged Mia. If I don’t end up in jail before dark, I’ll let you know.

  What are you doing?

  Breaking and entering. Want to come?

  Where are you?

  Found some forged docs.

  Are you at the museum? Get out of there! You could be arrested.

  I already said that.

  There was a long pause. Then Mia’s reply came: There’s a rumor that a secret room exists behind the statues at the front entrance. Maybe you can try your luck.

  Any pointers?

  Sorry, you’re on your own. But it might give you what you need to finally prove AWP is linked with GOAMM. Everyone leaves a trail.

  You aren’t going to tell Levy, are you?

  I thought you knew me better than that.

  Did he? Let’s talk about it over dinner. 8:00 at the Graze restaurant, Taj Sheba Hotel?

  If you aren’t in jail.

  Omar smiled and moved to the next table. He took a few more snapshots, but the idea of a hidden room nagged at him. Omar entered the hallway, finding the air still and smug, as if it held a secret that not even a deceitful Buddhist monk could uncover. He descended the steps to the main level and walked to the receptionist’s desk, looking around. A small panel of lights blinked against the pale wall next to the front doors—a security system that looked as though a high school student had put it together. He could disarm it within seconds, though maybe he wouldn’t need to.

  He walked toward the statues. “Hello, Dhamar and Tha’ran. No offense, but you’re in my way.” Omar moved behind the statues and knocked along the wall. The studs were consistently twenty-four to thirty centimeters apart. But without a jackhammer or a chisel, he saw no way to penetrate the wall.

  Then he found a hollow spot.

  Mia had been right. For at least two meters, there were no two-by-fours. He tapped downward. Nothing. His continued knocking told him that at about eye level, a stud ran horizontally—like the top of a door frame.

  Turning, he moved to the reception area, looking for any object that was hard enough to smash through Sheetrock, when his gaze rested on the plaque announcing Dhamar and Tha’ran to the world. “Sorry, boys.”

  He lifted the plaque, stand and all, and rammed it into the wall.

  Omar grimaced as he threw his weight against his battering device over and over until the wall caved. This better be the only entrance.

  He surveyed the damage. There was no covering up the crumbled Sheetrock and fine, powdery chalk now. The hole was just big enough to climb through. He landed with a thump on the other side onto a cold, concrete floor, and flipped on his flashlight.

  Déjà vu.

  Although it wasn’t a three-thousand-year-old tomb, the atmosphere could have been identical. The place had been built with no modern architecture considered. The stone room was a lopsided trapezoid. Chunky cement protruded from between the roughly cut rock, and the dank smell reminded Omar of something long dead and rotted. Oddly enough, a metal file cabinet stood in the center of the room. No table or chair or dangling lightbulb—just a lone cabinet for paperwork. “There’s your trail, Mia.”

  On the dust-thick floor were unmistakable footprints from various shoes or boots coming from the right. He shone the beam above his head and examined the ceiling. A metal grate was wedged between the ceiling stones. “Ah, there’s the second entrance.”

  The cabinet was locked. Of course. Omar checked his watch—6:30 p.m. He wondered if there was a night inspection from police or security,
or even from the curator himself. Omar set to work quickly, and it took only a few seconds to jimmy the file lock and open the first drawer.

  A row of red folders met his eye—each labeled with a sequence of numbers. He removed the folder in front and found a memo of some sort from the AWP. Omar’s heart rate doubled. He snapped a picture and went on to the next. Folder after folder contained documents that, if each one stood alone, could incriminate some of the highest officers in the government.

  The second drawer proved even more informative, containing several memos written by the director of GOAMM, Dr. Abdallah Saleh al-Qadi. A quick scan told Omar that he was the contact with AWP. Some of the other documents looked like articles or press releases. Not having time to read through each one, he simply snapped pictures and moved on.

  One hour passed, and Omar kept taking pictures. His throat ran dry as he worked on the third drawer. Its files consisted of photographs taken at archaeology sites. Included with the photographs were field reports, and after reading the first one, Omar knew that the world he was familiar with was about to change.

  One of the reports stated that the queen of Sheba was connected with King Tambariah. “Impossible.” Yet as Omar breathed the words, puzzle pieces began to fall into place. He flipped through the final files, madly searching for any reference to Solomon but finding none. From the last folder, he removed a copy of a series of notes written by a man named Dr. Lyon. Behind the notes was a sketch of the same diagram he’d seen on the tomb wall, but this one was labeled. Omar was about to snap a picture when he heard a sound above him.

  Light flooded the room.

  CHAPTER

  30

  Salalah Hospital, Dhofar, Oman

  The pale walls surrounded her, the smell of antiseptic threatening to burn her nostrils, but Jade felt clean again. The last few hours had been a blur—she’d been rescued, and Lucas had insisted that she needed immediate medical care for dehydration. She’d told him about the tomb, the sarcophagus, the writings she’d found, but he’d insisted that she’d fallen into a natural cave about five meters deep. She was too weak to protest the drive across the desert to Salalah and the transfer into the hospital bed.