by Josie Brown
While Jack oversees all satellite reconnaissance within a forty-mile range of the dig, I’m to go in alone, via motorcycle.
An hour before we landed, Al Qaeda set off a bomb at a major shopping mall in Sana’a. Thank goodness, Yemeni police squads are too busy herding fleeing citizens through security checkpoints to notice a lone biker zipping through the desert on a starry night.
So that I don’t unwittingly run into roving bands of Al Qaeda Shi’a, I’m riding without a headlight. To compensate, I wear infrared night vision goggles under my helmet.
I keep my eye on the digital GPS system of my Supermoto as I parallel the road, and I zigzag through the desert at the first sign of lights in any direction. For this journey, I’m not in regional garb—a headscarf to cover all but my eyes, and a floor-length abaya, both made of plain white linen. Instead, I wear a bike helmet with a tinted visor and a bulky black leather jumpsuit that obscures my womanly curves.
Better to be shot as an enemy than raped as a victim.
For that matter, the marauders have plenty of others to traumatize during the chaos. By staying off-road, I’ve barely sidestepped a group of livestock-herding Bedouin women, heading south.
But just a mile behind them is a car, commandeered by two men. The one in the passenger seat shoots an Uzi skyward, just for the hell of it. At the speed at which they’re traveling, they’ll catch up with the women in no time. What will take place won’t be pretty, and unfortunately, the memories will stay with the women forever—
That is, if they’re allowed to live.
I turn my motorcycle in the direction of the car.
Because my GPS coordinates are being tracked by Jack through my contact lenses and ear buds—which also give him wireless feeds of everything I see and hear—I’m not at all surprised to hear him warn me, “Donna, you don’t have time for a detour. It’ll be daylight soon. We’ve got exactly one hour to pull off this mission and turn the plane around.”
He’s right. Stopping to help them will set me back badly. But it will haunt me for the rest of my life if I don’t do something, so I circle back around.
When I finally spot the rebels’ car on the side of the road, I turn off my engine. So that they don’t hear me, I jog the last quarter of a mile.
I get there just in time to see the driver yank the youngest—a girl of about thirteen—out from the cluster of frightened women, and drag her behind his car while his compatriot holds her screaming mother and aunts at bay with his Uzi.
The man has already shoved his pants to his ankles with one hand and is holding the sobbing, struggling girl down with the other when I come up behind him.
When my switchblade slices the rapist’s throat, he lets out a groan, more painful than orgasmic.
Every time I take a life, I’m awed and humbled by the act: the stark fear glazing my victims’ eyes, that final gasp of realization, followed by the peaceful calm of resignation; then, finally, the anticipation of oblivion.
Will I feel the same, when my time comes?
The young girl’s hysterical screams are so loud that, by the time I get to the other man, all it takes to finish him off is a single shot to the back of his head with the rapist’s handgun.
As the women bless me to Allah, I toss the gun at the girl’s mother, along with the ammo cache that I found in the back of the rebels’ car. “God’s gift is not me, but your own lives. Keep moving,” I command them.
Then I dart back out into the dark desert night.
I have no doubt they’ll make it. The mother smiled when what was left of her captor’s head hit the sandy asphalt.
I would have reached my destination quicker, but a skirmish between some tribe and another band of marauders forces me to loop out so far from the target coordinates that it takes me another twenty minutes to get back on course.
When, finally, I enter the narrow mouth of the canyon, I yank off my helmet and scan the valley before me for anything that resembles an excavation.
Then I see it: the ruins surrounding Bilqis’ tomb.
In the dawn’s early light, the outline of the ancient mounds resemble a sleeping old woman, fatigued and limbs akimbo. For the past three millennia, the hot breath of the desert has been blowing sheets of sand against her crumbling flanks.
Silence shrouds every corner of the ruins. Good, I’m alone. But just in case someone else comes calling while I’m inside, I hide my bike behind a copse of scrub trees.
Now that two thousand years of dust has been moved from a hole some sixty feet wide and 100 feet deep, a massive tomb, built on the backs of a thousand Sabaean slaves, is nakedly exposed.
Wraiths of dust, caught in the dawn’s early light, waltz lazily around the clay pillars flanking its entrance. Carved onto each is a likeness of the queen of Sheba. On one, the canes she holds in each of her hands are topped with the heads of lions. Her straight-on stare is blank, her eyes filled solid with clay.
On the other pillar, Bilqis is in profile. Her eye—a slit, really—is dark, fathomless.
I take a switchblade from the back of my boot. Following our client’s instructions, I stab the empty-eyed silhouette once, quickly and deeply.
When the blade connects with a clasp buried deep within the eyehole, a tiny trap door at my feet slides open. It’s just large enough for me to drop down into it.
Okay, no. My shoulders are stuck.
“What’s taking so long?” The impatience in Jack’s voice is enough incentive to shift my arms. They are squeezing my breasts to the point that I’ve given myself the kind of cleavage I’ve only dreamed of. Hmmm. I should pose like this more often—
And that does the trick. I fall through the opening—
Onto some sort of slide that takes me on a ride in pitch darkness.
Finally, I skid to a stop. With trembling hands, I flick on my flashlight. The shadows swallow its glow. Still, I angle its beam around the room. Despite its massive size, the room is empty, except for a rectangular stone box—six feet in width, three feet in depth, and only three feet wide.
“The queen of Sheba’s sarcophagus!” Jack’s awed whisper echoes in my ear.
The lid has been nudged to one side, but only by a few inches.
I take a deep breath as I give it a shove. It is hinged in such a way that it slides open easily—not with a creak, but with a whisper.
The body inside is tiny, almost childlike. It is wrapped in weathered strips of cloth.
The scepter is clutched in her sheathed hands.
I shudder. Jack must see my head shaking because he says, “I know this sounds callous, but if we’re going to get out of here anytime soon, you’re just going to have to go for it.”
“I know.” Still, I feel creepy.
Like a grave robber.
I try to uncoil Bilqis’ stiffened fingers from the scepter, but she won’t let go. Soon I’m in a wrestling match with her. To give myself some leverage, I step up on the ledge of the pedestal beneath the sarcophagus, grab the scepter with both hands, and jerk it back, as hard and as fast as I can.
I’ve torn it loose.
But one of her hands is still clutching it.
Gently, I pull it off, and place it back on her chest.
I swear, I don’t like the way she’s staring at me.
The roar of engines breaks our gal pal moment. By the way the sound echoes through the tomb, I can tell it’s a large fleet.
“Jack, what’s going on outside?”
“You’ve got company. I’m opening the satellite feed into your right contact lens, so that you can see for yourself,” Jack tells me.
What I see doesn’t make me happy. The motorcade has stopped just outside the entrance of the tomb, kicking up a cloud of fine desert silt. By the time it drifts away, several rebels, dusted from head to toe in shimmering dirt, have already sprung to the ground. They are crouching warily beside their vehicles, listening intently for any wayward sounds.
Finally, one motions the all-clear. Squinti
ng through the sights of their Uzis, the rebels fan out in all directions.
Two of the men head to the front of the tomb. One of them, the taller of the two, runs his hands along the face of the front wall. The other, short and with a hook in his nose, angrily smacks the wall with the butt of this rifle.
Yeah, good luck with that, buddy.
Frustrated, Shorty shoots his rifle, then ducks as bullets ricochet off the wall and one of the two large columns. Tall Guy literally slams into the other column to avoid a stray.
The column topples over onto the tomb. The building shakes as the wall caves in, exposing an antechamber.
Now they are one thin wall away from me.
“Where the hell am I supposed to hide?” I mutter frantically. “It’s not like l can climb back up the damn rabbit hole that put me here!”
“Jump into the sarcophagus!” Jack commands me.
“What? Are you crazy?”
But he’s right. It’s the only place to hide.
I run to it and jump in—
Beside Bilqis.
In order to fit, I’ve got to hug her, John and Yoko-style.
Before taking the position, I shift the lid so that it looks as if it’s closed. In fact, it’s angled in such a way that I can peek out through a slim crack. If I’m lucky, they won’t bother to lift it up.
Two men are now standing there in the doorway, haloed in the hazy sunlight. They look around. The emptiness of the room disappoints them, I’m sure. Tall Dude seems afraid to step inside, but Shorty circles the sarcophagus. His slow, steady footsteps echo off the high arched walls of the ancient tomb.
He leans against the sarcophagus and lights a cigarette, as if he has all the time in the world.
My mind warns me not to breathe, not to move, not to make a sound.
Finally, he shrugs and starts out.
He’s just reached the threshold when I sneeze.
His head whips in my direction. His eyes turn toward the sarcophagus.
I am so screwed.
He starts over, but Tall Dude, whose eyes are open wide with fear, grabs his arm. When Shorty shakes it off, the other pleads with him, in Arabic. I don’t know what they’re saying, but whatever it is won’t buy me much time.
“Donna, there’s something funny about the sarcophagus’ dimensions,” Jack mutters. “The surveillance feed on you is reading a spatial anomaly.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I whisper back.
“I’m trying to tell you that it’s reading much deeper than it should, considering the mass of the sarcophagus’ base. My guess is that it has a false bottom.”
“Why, pray tell?”
“If you remember, those preparing the royals for the afterlife were sometimes buried alive with them. A false bottom would have allowed the survivors to escape somehow. If so, there’s got to be some sort of lever to open it. Start searching for it! I’m already on my way to you.”
“Are you crazy? Stay put! One of us has to get out of here alive.” For my children’s sake, if for no other reason. We both know it. This is not the way I want them to learn that Jack—the only father they’ve ever known—has no legal rights to protect them from Carl, their biological father—
And the man who deserted all of us.
If Jack is right and there is a lever, I’d better find it quickly because Shorty seems to have won the argument. The men are moving toward the sarcophagus, guns ready.
I run my hand along the sides of the box, but I don’t feel anything. Finally I get the nerve to nudge Bilqis to one side. Beneath her is a carving of what seems to be a constellation made of diamonds. Venus is the largest stone. I smack it with my fist—
Just in time, too, because the lid is shoved to one side. The men are staring down at me.
But they’re too late. Bilqis, the scepter and I drop through a trap door.
As I fall, Shorty’s arm grabs for me—
And gets caught as the stone door slams shut again.
His blood-curdling scream follows me as I fly down the smooth stone chute.
So does his severed arm.
The ideal landing would have been a soft bed of hay, but hey, three thousand years has eliminated that option. There isn’t even a fine powder to break my fall—
Just Bilqis, God bless the old girl.
I grab the scepter and jump to my feet. My flashlight reveals a long, dark tunnel. I take off at a trot, running for at least a mile.
At the end of the tunnel are a few crude stone steps. I search the walls for a lever. When I find it, a panel slides open just above them. As I run up the staircase, I’m hit with a whirlwind of centuries-old dust.
Jack is waiting for me topside.
“You’ve got to love GPS,” he says with a smile.
I’m still coughing when he kisses me. When we pull away, his lips are caked in dust, too. The longer we laugh, the harder I cough.
We hop onto his motorcycle, and we’re off.
Crown Prince Sheikh Hamdan bin Al Mubarak is there to meet the helicopter when it lands within Umm al-Quwain’s border. I know I look like hell. My jumpsuit is shredded at the knees and elbows. Every time I shake my head, I shower myself in dirt.
The prince doesn’t notice. He doesn’t even look at me. He only has eyes for the scepter. He grabs it out of my hand and walks off, then waves us away, as if we’ve handed him a bowling trophy or something.
“You’re welcome,” I yell after him.
As the prince’s limousine roars off into the desert, Jack says, “I don’t think he caught your sarcasm.”
“Hey, as long as he puts in a good word for Acme with our new president.” I can’t bring myself to call our former neighbor and new POTUS, Lee Chiffray, by his new title.
George is yelling at us from the cockpit of the helicopter, but because of the din of the Puma’s engine, we only catch a few words—something about “Dominic” and “urgent.”
We jump onboard and grab the satellite phone from him.
“Donna, my dear, tell me you’ve still got the scepter.” There is no urgency in Dominic’s voice. He might as well be asking about the weather.
“I’m pleased to announce that it’s safely in the prince’s hands. Why do you ask?”
“Ah! Pity.”
Despite a desert temperature of over a hundred degrees, a cold dread washes over me. “I beg your pardon?”
“Turns out the prince isn’t the fourteenth son of King Al Mubarak, after all. He isn’t even the twenty-third.”
I slump to the floor of the helicopter. “Are you saying he’s—a fraud?”
“Afraid so, my dear. On a hunch, I rang up Brolly—he’s the fifth son, you may recall me saying. A rather curious nickname, but it certainly fit the bill, since the old boy never remembered his umbrella, even in the dead of winter—”
“I don’t care about this Brolly person! Get to the point, Dominic!”
“Yes, well, as I was saying, I felt that the fifth son certainly trumped the fourteenth, at least when it comes to something as important as prep schools,” he chuckles. “As I suspected, the Al Mubaraks are Etonians, to a son. According to the fingerprints Arnie found on your mystery man’s teacup, his real name is Freddie Mansour, and he originally hails from Chicago. His Interpol file reads like the script for The Thomas Crown Affair, what with the number of antiquities he’s absconded with over the years.”
“So, what you’re telling me is that we stole a state treasure from a geo-politically strategic ally—for a known antiquities thief to fence?”
“Seems to be the case, yes.”
“But—but we were told he had a Triple A client rating! That means he was thoroughly vetted and referred by the CIA!”
“Ah, there you go! As soon as Ryan realizes our largest client cocked it up, I’m sure you’ll be off the hook,” he chuckles. “As for Monsieur Bernard…well, dearie, if you blame that one on the cousins, you’ll be sure to start an argy-bargy. Not to worry, we’ll keep it our
little secret from the boss man, until you choose to do otherwise.”
“You mean, Ryan doesn’t know about it yet?” Dominic is such a coward.
“Far be it from me to steal your thunder! Besides, he’s already on his way to DC—to testify at the senate hearing for Carl’s nomination. By the way, you and Jack are to meet him there, tout suite.”
Stunned, I hang up.
Catching my eye, Jack winks at me and asks, “What’s up with Baron Blowhard?”
I pause, at a loss for how to answer him. If Jack is called to testify, I don’t know what he’ll say. I only hope that, whatever it is, it won’t be the end of Acme.
Or the end of us, no matter what Carl has in store.
Chapter 2
Advise and Consent
“Son, this is a Washington, DC kind of lie. It’s when the other person knows you’re lying, and also knows you know he knows.”
—Henry Fonda, as “Robert Leffingwell”
[From the first draft of the screenplay for The Housewife Assassin’s Handbook]
FADE IN ON
INT. Senate Office Building Hearing Room—Day.
CARL STONE, a handsome and dapper man in his early forties, sits at a TABLE across from THE FIFTEEN SENATORS who make up the US SENATE SELECT COMMITTEE ON INTELLIGENCE.
Behind him, in the HEARING ROOM GALLERY sits a crowd of REPORTERS, PUBLIC ONLOOKERS, and SENATE AIDES.
Carl smiles slightly. He raps his fingers on the table to a sound only he can hear, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. All the while, he keeps his eyes firmly on the committee’s YOUNGEST SENATOR, who is angrily reciting a litany of Carl’s not-so-random acts of terror.
COMMITTEE CHAIRPERSON
Senator, this is a nomination hearing, not a filibuster!
Unless you have proof of these allegations against Carl Stone, I’ll have to
ask you to discontinue this line of questioning.
YOUNGEST SENATOR
In fact, I do have a witness who can validate these facts.
