Finding Sheba (Omar Zagouri Thriller Book 1)

by H. B. Moore

  “From the beginning, Yahweh created male and female,” the priest said, raising his arms.

  Azhara circled around Solomon seven times. Then she stopped and waited for Solomon to lift her veil. Nicaula watched in anticipation, hoping that the second veil her servant wore would still conceal her identity enough.

  The high priest removed the shawl Solomon wore over his robe. Then Solomon lifted Azhara’s veil, placing the hem on his shoulder.

  The priest said, “What Yahweh hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

  A cheer rose from the crowd, and the king smiled. His smile seemed genuine for a man who must have heard the same words hundreds of times.

  The lower priest placed a garland each on the heads of Solomon and Azhara. Then a bowl of holy water was presented, and the bride and groom dipped their hands into it.

  The high priest stepped in front of the couple and read the marriage contract. A word from Solomon had him skipping to the marital blessings. “In the words of Jacob,” the priest said, “ ‘Let my name be named on them, and the name of my fathers Abraham and Isaac; and let them grow into a multitude in the midst of the earth.’ ”

  “Amen,” thundered around Nicaula, bringing the ceremony to a close. Many of the guests began to dance, while others moved to the feast laid out in the nearby garden.

  The queen gripped her veil tightly as she moved through the thronging people and returned to her living quarters. Her servants ignored her since she was dressed in Azhara’s clothing, and they assumed she was cleaning the queen’s room. Once alone, Nicaula stripped off her rough clothes and pulled on a robe. She climbed into her bed and closed her eyes, replaying the events in her mind. Solomon was with Azhara right now, and if Azhara was careful, he would never know he’d married a servant.

  Before the light of morning, Azhara was to leave the king’s bed and return to the queen. They would switch places—Azhara turning to menial duties, and Nicaula pretending as though she were newly married. She hoped to make a graceful exit from Jerusalem.

  The queen turned over in bed as Batal’s pained expression came unbidden to her mind. Had she made the right decision? Was she a fool to think she could be happy without him?

  Could she keep the secret from him? Batal was the only man whom she’d truly kissed, truly desired. What if . . . in his melancholy . . . he turned to one of the beautiful courtiers? He surely had his pick of at least a dozen. She thought about the seven women who had made eyes at Solomon when she stood in his presence.

  A shudder passed through her body. To be married to a man like that would have been worse than a loveless marriage. She had tasted the sweetness of love, and she had to be grateful for at least that.

  Batal would continue to grow in his commandership and would someday take a bride, but Nicaula wanted no more from men. She would remain a virgin and die a virgin.

  The red cliffs towered over the queen’s camp, offering shade in the blistering afternoon heat. Nicaula’s caravan had left Jerusalem several weeks before, and now they camped at Eloth. She paced back and forth inside the tent, knowing that at any moment her servant would enter, and she would have to tell the woman the truth. In the morning, she’d send Azhara on her way to her new life in a foreign land, and Nicaula would return to her old one. Azhara had made the ultimate sacrifice for her mistress, and now the queen was about to change the woman’s fate yet again.

  The heat was suffocating, and Nicaula’s mind wandered. It had been a hot day like this one when she’d been summoned to her father’s side, just days before he left on that final journey. The king had gripped her hand and sent the servants away.

  “Daughter, hear me now,” her father had whispered. “There is something you must know, now that you are a young woman and will be queen someday . . .”

  The breeze outside picked up, and the raised tent flap fluttered, bringing Nicaula from her long-ago memories.

  Azhara appeared at the entryway. She bowed before she stepped inside. Then she took her usual place, sitting on the rug at the foot of the queen’s reed chair. The woman wore the clothing of a servant still so that the others would not know what had transpired.

  Azhara kept her eyes lowered, and Nicaula noticed the fleshy rose of the girl’s cheeks. Her thin hands had swollen, and her belly had rounded.

  “Are you well?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Azhara said.

  Nicaula had spent long days wondering what had transpired between Azhara and Solomon on their wedding night. “How did you conceal your identity from King Solomon?”

  The servant turned her head away, a lock of hair falling into her face. “I asked him to extinguish the oil lamps and insisted that all Arabian women wear their wedding veil on their wedding night.”

  “You are sure he did not guess the change?”

  “No,” Azhara whispered. “Each time his hands moved to my neck, I changed position. He did not mind my avoidance in kissing. After he fell asleep, I stained the bedcover with the blood from the vial you gave me.”

  The queen let out a breath of air, satisfied. “You have served me well, and I know you grieve for Tambariah. Perhaps one day he will join you in your new home.”

  Azhara lifted her head, hope shining in her eyes.

  “But you may change your mind after hearing what I have to say.” Nicaula produced a roll of papyri from the waistband of her robe. “I received this scroll delivered from Solomon this morning.” She crossed to Azhara and knelt beside her. “I told him about the child, and, of course, he thinks I am carrying it. I also told him that I would not return to Jerusalem to raise a son among his other wives.”

  “A son? How can you know?”

  “I know,” the queen said. “Solomon has promised a new kingdom, a new life in another country. The country is south of Egypt, called Abyssinia.”

  “And this is where we’ll dwell?”

  “This is where you will live, with your son.” Nicaula touched the woman’s shoulder. “You have done me a service that I may never be able to repay, except in this small way. You will be the queen of Abyssinia, under the blessing and order of King Solomon. You will bear your son and live a life of prosperity and honor. This will replace the sorrow in your heart.”

  Astonishment covered Azhara’s face. “You are giving me a kingdom? I cannot be a queen . . . I haven’t the heritage, and I don’t know how to make decisions like a monarch. I cannot read or write.”

  The queen smiled benignly. “All these things can be learned.” She straightened and looked past her servant. “As for your heritage, there is one more thing I must tell you before we part ways.”

  Confusion lay in Azhara’s eyes, and she gripped her trembling hands together, holding them against her swollen belly.

  “Royal blood runs through your veins. You were born to my father by the way of a servant girl. Father made me promise never to reveal this secret, or civil disputes might arise. You were born sickly, and although he didn’t educate you, he protected you by bringing you to the palace.” Nicaula took a deep breath, feeling her own emotion surface. “The best way I knew to ensure your safety was to keep you as a personal servant.”

  Nicaula pulled Azhara to her feet and embraced the girl’s trembling body. “Sister, you have served me more than any woman can serve another. You deserve to represent your heritage now and forever. Go and rule your country. Rise to the queen within you.” She drew away and touched her sister’s chest. “Within your heart, greatness lies, waiting to be uncovered.”

  Tears streamed down Azhara’s cheeks as she took a shaky breath. “Where do I begin?”

  “First, you will learn what all men know—how to read.”

  CHAPTER

  35

  San’ã, Yemen

  “Pull over here,” Omar told the taxi driver.

  The small bookshop near the airpo
rt had a couple of tables set outside displaying shiny copies of tourist books. Omar entered the dim store and greeted the shop owner. The heavyset man looked up from his tea.

  “I’m searching for a Bible,” Omar said.

  The shop owner waved him toward a stack of dusty books piled on a table. Omar sorted through them quickly, sneezing a few times in the process. After he’d spent several minutes in fruitless searching, the shop owner stood. He shuffled into a back room and a moment later appeared with a box. He set it on top of a stack of books and returned to his tea without a word.

  Omar started emptying the contents of the box. At the bottom was a well-worn copy of the King James Version of the Bible. He’d never actually read this version, but as long as it contained the Song of Solomon, it would do.

  He paid for the Bible, then hailed a taxi and ordered the driver to the airport. He put the Bible into his bag and sorted through his things. When he dialed the hospital number in Salalah and asked about Alem, the receptionist transferred him to a nurse.

  “Hello, madam. I’d like to check on Mr. Alem Eshete.”

  “Mr. Zagouri? Mr. Eshete has been asking for you.”

  “He’s awake? Can I speak with him?”

  “There’s no phone in his room.”

  “Tell him I’ll be there in the morning.”

  The taxi stopped. Omar tossed the driver a few bills and climbed out. A narrow-faced, bird-thin man sat at the reservations desk and looked up when Omar approached.

  “I need to charter a helicopter today.”

  “We’re booked.”

  “How much to book a helicopter to Marib right now?”

  He motioned for Omar to come closer. “How much do you have?”

  Omar removed a stack of traveler’s checks from his bag and handed over a dozen. “You get this now and more when we get to Marib.”

  The man smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Zabid.” He shouted over his shoulder, something about going to dinner. Then he grabbed a blazer from the back of his chair. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re flying me?”

  “Yes, yes.” Zabid grinned again, leading the way through the crowds and then out into the blazing heat on the tarmac.

  They stopped before a helicopter that had seen much better days. “This is it, huh?” Omar asked.

  Zabid whistled as he checked a few things, then rushed Omar into the chopper. “We must hurry . . . before the boss returns.”

  Omar laughed. He liked this guy already. “We’re picking up another passenger. There’s another thousand in it for you if you wait.”

  The man reddened. “All right. All right. I’ll say we had engine trouble.”

  Omar wondered if the man’s lie wouldn’t be far from the truth. At least he hoped a little rust wouldn’t impede the helicopter.

  The flight wouldn’t be long, but Omar took the opportunity to thumb through the Bible. He stopped at 1 Kings and skimmed the verses that chronicled Solomon’s early reign as king. The man had it all—women, gold, unimaginable luxuries, the confidence of God. Omar slowed his reading at chapter ten. As he scanned the verses of the encounter between Solomon and the queen of Sheba, he tried to picture the grand meeting that must have taken place between two great regents.

  He skipped to the Song of Songs, or the Song of Solomon, as it was titled in this Bible version. By the second sentence, he was entranced. “For thy love is better than wine . . . he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts . . .” And this was three thousand years ago? Omar read on until he reached chapter five. “I am come into my garden, my sister, my spouse . . .”

  He thought back to the envelope: Venite, dilecti filii, egredemini in hortum.

  Come, beloved sons, go into the garden.

  Did the garden equal love? Ecstasy? Bliss? The words had been written on the envelope in the office and on the hotel window—both places of destruction. Somehow he didn’t think that the garden represented innocent love. But palm trees were green. In the desert, palms signified an oasis—a garden? If the sketch of palms was a map for the queen’s tomb, maybe the garden was her tomb.

  This is getting absurd. Jesus Christ had been buried in a garden tomb hundreds of years later. Was the queen of Sheba’s death a precursor to Christ?

  “There’s Marib,” the pilot shouted over the roar of the helicopter.

  Omar looked at the towering ruins. “Five kilometers to the north is a guard station in front of a complex of low buildings. Drop me there.”

  Zabid banked the chopper left. Moments later, he brought the helicopter down. Omar grabbed the pistol from his bag and slid it into his pocket. “Wait here. A thousand extra for you.”

  Zabid grinned. “Yes, yes.”

  Omar climbed out of the helicopter and made his way the couple hundred meters to the outpost, where several guards had already exited. Just beyond the Marib guard station was a series of low-lying buildings—the top of the massive underground complex. Someone here knew where Mia was.

  One of the guards raised a hand, signaling Omar to stop. The guard wore a dingy white shirt, unbuttoned to the navel, with a black military-style beret perched on his head of dark, curly hair. He had two rifles slung over his shoulder. Overachiever.

  “We’re in lockdown. Come back tomorrow,” the guard stated as if he were a recording.

  “Impossible,” Omar said in a clipped British accent, mentally sizing the guard up. Although a long scar ran the length of the guard’s pockmarked cheek, Omar wasn’t intimidated. He could easily take him, even with the two guns. It was the other three or four guys inside the guard post that he worried about. “I was told to come today or blood would be on someone’s hands.”

  The guard fiddled with a radio attached to his belt. “What’s your name?”

  “Diya Al Ghabiry, secretary of Abdallah Saleh al-Qadi, who is the director of GOAMM.” Omar presented his fake government badge.

  “I know who the director is,” the guard said, sounding annoyed.

  “There’s a woman here . . . We have a meeting scheduled.”

  “All right.” The guard stepped into the post for a moment, and after gesturing to the men inside, he came out. “Follow me.”

  Omar followed, trudging through the sand to the next building. The interior was cool and dark, and the concrete floor sloped downward. At the bottom of the incline sat a wide pair of gates. “Wait here. Someone will meet you.”

  The compound opened into a huge cavern—an underground parking lot, containing several vehicles. Omar walked along the parking garage looking for another entrance. At the far end, he found a heavy door and a surveillance camera mounted above it turned in his direction. He walked to the door and banged on it. Sure enough, the door slid open, and another guard emerged, his hand on the AK-47 slung over his shoulder.

  Omar showed his badge to the guard. “I have a meeting with the woman and Mr. Rabbel,” he said, keeping his accent.

  The guard’s eyebrows lifted. “Rabbel said he’s not to be disturbed.”

  “And the woman?” Omar pressed.

  The guard spoke into his radio, then listened to the reply. “She’s not available.”

  “I’ll just wait in Rabbel’s office.”

  “No one waits in his office.”

  “I have a delivery from the director of—”

  “Shhh.” The guard’s face hardened. “Come in.”

  Omar stepped into a dim hallway. The unmistakable odor of frankincense oozed from the cement walls. Cameras dotted the ceiling, making Omar wonder if the surveillance room rivaled Israeli government headquarters.

  The passage veered to the right and sloped downward, taking them deeper into the complex. A cool rush of air came from up ahead and with it, the scent of cleaning chemicals. A small sign next to the door they passed had a stick-figure picture of someone swimming. The place has a swimming p
ool? He noticed that all the doors had a keyless entry system, like a hotel.

  The guard stopped, waved a card in front of a monitor, and held the door open for Omar. “Wait here.”

  Omar entered, and the door slid shut behind him. He scanned the room. There were two windows—too high to see out of—a bookcase, an overstuffed chair, and a halogen lamp. The floor was bare except for a small rug at the foot of the chair.

  Two minutes passed and then another. Rabbel wasn’t going to meet him after all, Omar decided. He’d have to find Mia on his own.

  Omar opened the door, looking both ways along the corridor. Then he chose the opposite direction from which he had come. When he heard someone approach, he lowered his head, avoiding eye contact. But the person stopped. From the corner of his eye, Omar saw that he was a large man wearing a long, white tunic, head covered with an embroidered cap. Hopefully the guy carried only one of those long knives.

  Omar raised his head just as the man drew a gun. He didn’t have time to second-guess himself, so he lunged to wrestle the gun away. A sharp elbow to the man’s head gave Omar an instant’s advantage, and he grabbed the gun and slammed it against the man’s temple, knocking the fellow out. Then Omar riffled through the man’s pockets and found what he needed.

  An identification key.

  Hang on, Mia.

  Omar sped through the hall, trying one door after the other. He waved the ID to get into the rooms. The first looked like a science lab—full of long tables, equipment, and stacks of books. Shouting reached his ears, so he slipped into the next room—a junky office. The light was dim, but Omar scanned for a storage closet. Nothing but books lined the walls, and a couple of half-dead plants stood in the corner. He waited on the other side of the door with his gun ready until the voices faded along the hall.

  Cracking the door open, he found the hallway empty. He moved out and skidded to the next door. Waving the badge, he opened it and slipped in. The voices were back. Omar closed the door with a soft click and stared into the pitch dark as footsteps thudded down the hall, slowing nearby. They had entered the office.