Finding Sheba (Omar Zagouri Thriller Book 1)

by H. B. Moore

  Her head throbbed, and she remembered snatches of earlier conversation in which Lucas told her that Ismail had followed her tracks. How men of the desert could track any animal or human; how they could even tell if a camel was pregnant by the imprints in the sand.

  Falling into the tomb and the rescue seemed part of a dream. She raised her hand to her temple, feeling the bandage that covered several stitches.

  A nurse entered the room, pushing a metal trolley with a food tray on top. Jade eyed the items suspiciously, her stomach already rumbling in protest, but she was hungry enough to eat almost anything.

  The nurse propped her up with pillows and offered a dimpled smile. She said something that sounded very sweet in Arabic.

  When the nurse left, Jade sampled the salad containing barley, tomatoes, and parsley. It had a strong, heady flavor and was quite good. Then she tried the half pita stuffed with some sort of a meat sauce. Spicy. But the guava juice felt like velvet sliding down her throat, counteracting the zesty meal.

  She felt better now than she had in days, even before the fall. She reached for her bag, thankful that her phone was among her belongings, and for several minutes browsed through her notes, thinking of all she’d seen so far at Shisur. Then she entered every detail that she remembered about the tomb.

  When she finished, she rose from the bed, pulling the IV tower along with her. Lucas had said he’d return the following day, so there was no one around to give orders. She opened her door and walked to the lobby. Sitting on one of the chairs was a young African man sketching on a pad of paper. Therapy, perhaps. Her pulse sped up as she suddenly recognized him as the man she and Lucas had discovered on the back of a camel.

  “Excuse me, sir?” she said, not sure what language he spoke.

  The dark head turned, and Jade inwardly winced at the mass of stitches across his face. She held out her hand. “Remember me?”

  He stared at her for a moment, his eyes rimmed in red, and then patted the chair next to him with a bandaged hand. “Who are you?” he asked in English.

  “We found you in the desert.”

  The man turned away for a moment, and when he looked at her again, tears glistened against his lashes.

  Jade touched his arm. “You’re safe now. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I found an ancient sword,” he said in a raspy tone. “I thought they were taking me someplace else to dig. They bound me and . . . started singing and chanting.” He licked his lips and shuddered.

  “If it’s too hard, you don’t have to tell—”

  He took a deep breath. “I want someone to know what they did to me.”

  Jade’s eyes burned with tears as he continued.

  “When I realized what they were saying was evil, I felt sick, but I couldn’t do anything. They held me down next to the fire and cut my skin.” He moved his hand toward his face as if remembering the cutting.

  Jade put her hand on his shoulder. She felt sick at the thought of the mutilation this man had endured. “I’m so sorry.”

  He closed his eyes, his long lashes resting against his ebony cheeks. “They said that my sacrifice would bring about an important discovery.”

  His trembling had subsided, and Jade realized it had eased his pain to have told someone what had happened to him. Jade noticed the drawing he held of an intertwined flower and snake. Her heart rate doubled. “What’s that a picture of?”

  His eyes opened. “My grandmother used to tell me stories of the queen of Sheba. She loved the legends so much that this symbol was etched on her gravestone. I think it represents the queen and her lover.”

  “What lover?”

  “King Solomon, of course. My family is descended from King Menelik of Ethiopia.” His lips moved into a faint smile. “My grandmother took her connection very personally.” He traced the outline of the snake with his pencil. “So when I found that sword and it had the same symbol, I thought I’d discovered something important—a link to the queen.”

  Jade’s throat tightened. “So if this symbol were someplace else—say, inside a tomb—what would that mean?”

  The man raised his eyebrows, crinkling the white tape holding his stitches in place. “If this symbol were to appear inside a tomb, I’d say that the tomb belonged to the queen herself.”

  Jade stared at the symbol as the Ethiopian traced it over and over. Silence ticked between them as her hazy recollection grew clear. It was the same symbol she’d seen inside the tomb. Her breath shortened as the realization settled over her. “I’ve seen that symbol someplace else.”

  The man nodded absentmindedly.

  He didn’t understand what she meant. “Inside a tomb,” she whispered.

  His pencil stopped its motion, and he raised his head. “What did you say?”

  The astonishment in his eyes mirrored her pounding pulse. “I found a tomb in the desert . . . but they told me it was only a cave and made me come here and . . .” Her voice caught.

  The Ethiopian extended his large hand. “My name is Alem Eshete.”

  Jade took his hand, avoiding any pressure on the heavy bandage. “Jade Holmes.”

  His gaze had lost its wildness. “Tell me where you saw this symbol. Was the tomb in Saba? Marib?”

  “Shisur.”

  A faint shudder passed through Alem. “The oasis? No tomb has been uncovered there.” His eyes seemed to flicker with painful memories. “That’s where I was nearly sacrificed.” But his gaze changed from sorrow to excitement. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “I was trying to make my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night when I fell into a cavern. When morning came, I noticed strange features.”

  “Such as?”

  “A stone cut into the shape of a rectangle—large enough to be a sarcophagus. I dug the dirt away from the walls. Beneath the layers of soil was smooth stone, carved with writing and symbols.” She pointed to the sketch. “That was one of them. I remember it because it reminded me of the possibility of snakes sharing the same space with me.”

  “Are you sure this was the symbol?”

  Jade nodded. “I also found an opening in the wall—to another room, I think, but it was too dark to see inside.”

  Alem leaned back in his chair, letting out a low whistle. “It’s probably all over the newspapers now.”

  “No. You see, when I was rescued, I was told there was no tomb . . . but I know what I saw.”

  “I believe you.” He pointed to his drawing. “This proves it. So who rescued you?”

  “A group of Yemeni excavators led by a man named Ismail. I was traveling with the Egyptologist, Dr. Lucas Morel.” Jade shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She hadn’t expected to be interrogated.

  “Do these men have permission to excavate?”

  “Yes, and they told me I’d been mistaken about the tomb.” Her voice heated with emotion. Lucas’s reaction still confused her. “Even though I was probably half out of my mind with fear and thirst, I know what I saw.”

  “What else did these men tell you?”

  “Nothing, really. Lucas was so worried about my health, he rushed me here.” Her chest felt tight as a seed of doubt formed.

  “A little dehydration was a convenient way to get rid of you.”

  She exhaled. She couldn’t deny the logic of Alem’s words. How well did she really know Lucas? Her stomach churned at the thought of Lucas not being who she thought he was. She had trusted him. “Do you think—?”

  “I do. You may have made one of the greatest archaeology discoveries of the century. I think those men, Lucas and Ismail, were trying to get you out of their way. This is an archaeologist’s dream.” His dark eyes were intent on Jade. “You may have found her tomb. Men and women alike have been searching for centuries, spending millions, and now . . . it was found by a young lady from America.”

  Ja
de felt a strange sensation creep along her skin. She was both elated and horrified at the same time. “But why would Lucas try to get rid of me? Doesn’t he know that I’ll eventually find out?”

  “Not if he makes you disappear.”

  The same way Dr. Lyon disappeared? Is Lucas linked to the professor’s death?

  “Ms. Jade Holmes.” Alem’s tone was formal, serious. He stood awkwardly and bowed. “We have an oasis to find.”

  She let out a nervous laugh. “We’re a couple of invalids.”

  “You look healthy to me,” he said with a wink. “As for me . . . each day gets a little better.” He tilted his head and smiled. “And I know just the person who can take us there.”

  CHAPTER

  31

  Yemen

  Omar shoved the papers down his shirt and moved toward the hole in the wall, his eyes watering from the sudden light.

  “Stanis!” someone shouted as the ceiling grate slid open.

  Omar scrambled through the broken Sheetrock, wondering why the security person, or whoever it was, hadn’t come through the front doors of the museum. Then he realized that they probably thought he’d entered through the grate. If I’d known it was there, it would have been much easier than punching a hole in the wall.

  He hesitated in the reception hall. Was someone running to the front doors right now? Should he hide in the museum? No. It would be only a matter of time before they found him crouched behind a statue, and it would take too many precious moments to disarm the security system. Decision made, he grabbed the trusty plaque stand and plowed it through the glass doors, sending a spray of shards both inside and outside the building. The alarm blared, momentarily stunning Omar. With a sharp intake of breath, he crawled through the shattered opening. His hands split as they rubbed across the fallen glass, but he scuttled to his feet and started a dead run.

  He thought he heard shouting behind him, though he didn’t slow to find out. Running through the streets of Yemen had now become a regular activity. Omar’s breathing came hard, but the crinkle of paper against his chest urged him on, in addition to the collection of incriminating photos he’d just taken.

  When he was sure he wasn’t being followed, he slowed and continued toward the hotel. He skirted the entrance and found a back door. Once in his room, he rinsed the blood from his hands. He then retrieved a pair of tweezers from the toiletry bag and removed the shards one by one, wincing at the pain. Nothing looked too deep.

  With shaking hands, he pulled out the papers. The sketch was identical to what he’d seen in the tomb, but this sketch had names written next to each tree. And the language was old. Great. Give me something I can interpret, like Latin or Greek. He stared at the letters, knowing that they had to make sense. Then he realized it was Aramaic. Although its form was more ancient than modern Aramaic, it was still very similar to Hebrew.

  He picked out some letters—Dālath, zain, mim . . . His gaze focused on the name next to the center tree. The letters semkath, hē, bēth, ālaph . . . spelled Shba.

  Sheba.

  He looked at another name then translated it carefully. Batl.

  Batel or Batal?

  Then one name stood out. The translation was plain: David. There was only one David connected to royalty during the tenth century, but he would have been dead by the time the queen met his son, Solomon. Omar deciphered the remaining names: Ashara, Marib, Mother, Father . . .

  The names floating in his head, he left the sketch and Lyon’s notes on the bedside table, then stepped into the shower, letting warm water cascade over his tense shoulder muscles as he tried to compile the tons of information he’d stumbled upon. Then he remembered. Dinner with Mia. It was well after 9:00 p.m., and she’d probably left the restaurant by now. He shut off the faucet and toweled off. With the towel still wrapped around his waist, he grabbed his satellite phone and sent a message.

  He waited for a few minutes. No answer.

  Omar dressed, thinking of Mia. It seemed he could break through walls of Sheetrock or stone, but not through the barrier that existed between them. He called her again. Nothing. Omar picked up the sketch and settled beneath the scratchy sheets that smelled faintly of mango. The fruit bowl in the room sported various edibles, most overpowering the mango fruit. He’d ignored his growling stomach long enough, so he rose from the bed and snagged a kiwi, peeled it, and bit into the juicy flesh. The tiny seeds crunched beneath his teeth, bringing some satisfaction. Then he grabbed his camera and settled back onto the pillow. He found the picture he’d taken inside the tomb and compared it to the sketch. The trees were identical. So who had written these names on the copy?

  He skipped through the pictures and slowed at the final few.

  The small screen made deciphering the document photos impossible, but it was gratifying to see that he had the proof now—proof that could probably get him in a lot of trouble, or killed. That’s nothing new. He grabbed the notes from the nightstand and turned them toward the light, reading through the contents. It was a study by a man named Dr. Richard Lyon—a professor at Brown University in America. Halfway through, Omar sat up, tightening his grip on the pages. The study had obviously never been published; it was still in draft form. If it had been polished and published, everyone would know about it—even in the remotest parts of Yemen.

  Lyon believed the queen of Sheba’s tomb was at Shisur. According to the professor, the diagram in the Jerusalem tomb proved it.

  Omar slept fitfully, and when morning came, he packed his bag, left his room, and walked to the hotel lobby. Down the corridor was a small conference room. He slipped inside and logged on to the Internet. Then he googled Richard Lyon and watched as dozens of links popped up on the screen.

  Omar’s gaze settled on a recent one—an obituary in a small newspaper in Providence, Rhode Island. The man had died less than a month ago. Stunned, Omar continued to search and found an article that was dated just a few weeks before Lyon’s death.

  The article boldly claimed that Shisur, an oasis in eastern Oman, was part of the region of Ubar—and that was where the hunt for the queen of Sheba should begin. And that was before the tomb in Jerusalem was discovered. The diagram on the wall solidified Lyon’s theory.

  Omar stood and left the room, dozens of questions on his mind. He checked out at the front desk and stopped at the gift shop to buy cigarettes. Then he passed through the hotel doors, where he stood in the early morning damp, willing his phone to ring. Where is Mia? He leaned against a tree and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. His nose wrinkled as he smelled the fresh nicotine. He lit the cigarette and was almost tempted to inhale, but thought better of it. It had taken him six years to kick the habit in the first place. However, holding a lit cigarette made a man standing alone in the dark seem less suspicious. Everyone understood a smoke break.

  Fifteen minutes passed, and the city slowly came to life, but he couldn’t wait for someone to recognize the guy with the cut-up hands. Maybe Mia was just ignoring him for standing her up at dinner. But didn’t she want to know how his break-in went? She should at least be concerned about his health. He’d nearly been sliced to death by shattered glass. But the detailed message he’d sent to Mia had obviously garnered no sympathy.

  He let the burning butt drop to the ground, crushing the glowing embers with his shoe. The final, acrid line of smoke reached his nostrils, sending his saliva into overproduction. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked down the sidewalk, spotting a taxi. The sleepy driver slowed to a stop, and Omar climbed in. “To San’ā University.”

  As the taxicab hummed through the nearly vacant streets, Omar listened to the radio. The news, interrupting the Fathi music, filled the musty cab air. He strained to hear any mention of the museum, but there was no breaking report of a bloody monk, covered in Sheetrock powder, escaping the museum.

  When the driver stopped at the university gate, Omar paid hi
m. He climbed out of the taxi and walked beneath the stone arch. Hailing the closest student, Omar asked for directions to the library. The Internet service in the hotel was too public, and Omar needed to access his information without creating undue interest.

  When he reached the library, the doors were still locked. Open at 7:00 a.m. He checked his watch. 6:49.

  Pulling out his phone, he texted Mia again.

  A thin man with a naturally bald head unlocked the doors four minutes early. Omar walked casually through the front entrance, glancing at the signs along the way. First he found a copy machine and made four reproductions of the study by Dr. Lyon.

  He logged on to a computer terminal and typed: Queen of Sheba, Batal.

  After a few seconds of searching, the computer offered several dozen references. “Well, there are a lot of horses named after both of them,” he muttered. “And ‘Batal’ means ‘hero,’ the word ‘battle’ being derived from the Arabic ‘Batal.’ ”

  He leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen. Batal was also a village in the Indian Himalayas. Omar rubbed his bald head, feeling the first signs of sandpapery hair growth. Batal is just a name. Although, it was the name of someone who was important enough to be mentioned with a queen.

  Next he googled mother and father of the queen of Sheba. “According to Ethiopian history, the queen of Sheba was born in 1020 BC in Ophir. Her mother was Queen Ismenie. Her father was the chief minister to Za Sebado. When her father died, she ruled at the age of fifteen.”

  Omar pulled out the sketch and studied the names. Nothing was close to Ismenie. He read on. “The queen’s only son was Menyelek.” He stopped and looked at the names on the palm tree sketch. If the queen had had a child with Solomon, she hadn’t named him David, at least according to the Ethiopians.

  He googled the next two names on the sketch. Azhara—meaning flower in Arabic, but there was no historical significance.

  Marib was a city in Yemen; he already knew that. “The ancient civilization of the Sabaeans lasted from early second millennium to the first century BC. The capital was Marib—the ancient city located 3.5 kilometers south of modern-day Marib.” Omar stretched his hands behind his neck. Was Marib where the queen was buried? It seemed too easy.