She had blocked out the activity around her as she’d spent the last forty-five minutes agonizing over an information paper her commander had asked her to compose. It wasn’t that she’d put it off until the last minute–oh, all right, that’s exactly what she’d done. The paper was part of a leadership series Brigadier General Culver was putting together for distribution to the COSCOM officers. She asked various members of her command to write up the papers in areas she considered their specialty.
It only made sense for the general to ask a chaplain to write a paper addressing “language and professionalism,” urging the officers to watch their language in the workplace.
Poetic justice seemed to be the theme of Jaime’s life.
Jaime looked over her draft, feeling she’d done a pretty darn good job of it. (Emphasis on the “darn.”) She e-mailed the file to the general, completing her “to do” list.
Just as Jaime was preparing to shut down her computer, she noticed a reply from her commander had already appeared on the screen, which meant she was in her office, even at this late hour.
Does that woman ever sleep?
Jaime looked at her own watch.
Only eighteen hours remained between here and Switzerland.
Still, she had four hours until she had to catch her plane. Instead of heading back to her hooch, she slipped back into the command suite, walking past the aide’s alcove, now dark, toward the light from a partially opened door where she could see General Culver looking pensively at the computer screen.
Liz Culver, as she was known to her friends, was about five foot eight, slim, with the build of an athlete and very light brown hair cut short and styled back over her ears. Wasn’t there more gray in her hair last week? As she approached the office, Jaime wondered if her commander had found a way to color her hair even in this combat environment.
“Ma’am,” Jaime said, knocking on the door frame. “What keeps you here at this hour?”
“Chaplain!” Culver smiled as she stood and motioned her into the room. “Tonight it’s a crisis out in Al Asad–a truck crisis…nothing you need worry about. I also read your update about our surgery case. When do you think they’ll fly him out? I’d like to visit him.”
Jaime relaxed, walking to the front of the desk. “They’re sending him out early this morning, but he wasn’t critical, so he might still be here.”
“Either way, it’s good to know I had you there.”
Somewhat embarrassed, Jaime diverted the conversation. “Ma’am, I also sent you a draft of the point paper. I hope it’s what you needed. I’m preparing to head out later this morning.”
“On leave, yes. Did I see you are going to Davos, Switzerland? To attend the World Economic Forum? What kind of a break is that?”
“It’s become a hobby of mine, and a friend arranged an invite so I could observe some of the proceedings. I’m even scheduled to meet some noted economists. I’m hoping to learn a lot.”
“Always trying to change the world.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, I do love your enthusiasm, even if I don’t share your passion for the topic. On another subject, the command team’s replacements will arrive while you are gone, and we’ll be just about ready to TOA when you get back.”
TOA was a transfer of authority, a process designed to help a new unit prepare to take over the mission of a unit that had been deployed for a year. Culver’s unit had just arrived in Iraq when Jaime had resurfaced. The chaplain had liked and admired General Culver since their first brief interactions then, and her positive opinion had been borne out as she’d arrived to work under her here in Balad.
The general’s unit was still there only because they’d been extended a couple months beyond their normal year rotation, and they were more than ready to head home. When Jaime returned from this two-week leave she’d remain in Iraq, working for a different HQ.
“I want to thank you for stepping up to the plate and filling in after Chaplain Roberts became ill. When I got here and you were still MIA, I never in a million years suspected I’d meet you–let alone have you on my staff. It’s been a pleasure. I’ll make sure Corps treats you right when you slide over to work for them!”
“Thank you, ma’am. Since you may be on your way out the door when I return from leave, would you let me say a prayer for my commander before I go?”
“I’d be grateful,” said the general.
The two women sat at the corner of a large conference table in the same room where they’d met under remarkable circumstances only a year ago. The commander folded her hands and bowed her head, and Jaime laid her hands over those of the older woman, asking for patience and courage and to bring her soldiers home safely.
After the “amen,” Culver lifted her head and locked eyes with her chaplain. “Thank you,” she said. The general and the chaplain walked together to the door, where the senior officer reached out to draw her into a half-hug half-handshake.
“Be safe. Take a warm coat to Davos!”
Jaime turned to make her way back through the darkened command suite and almost collided with a figure waiting quietly in the shadows.
“I see you still haven’t lost your touch for ignoring protocol to sneak in and meet with the commander,” sneered a voice she recognized all too well. Lieutenant Colonel Ray Jenkins was not the person she wanted to spar with in the middle of the night while exhausted and on a tight schedule.
“Sir.” She could muster barely enough respect in her voice to avoid charges of insubordination, but her impatience with this man couldn’t be concealed. “I don’t know how I can make it any plainer than I already have. As a chaplain serving on the special staff of the CG, I have direct access to the commander.”
“Yeah, yeah, same ole bullshit you always give me.” He leaned back against the nearest desk and folded his arms across his chest. He wasn’t tall, maybe five foot seven at best, but his old-fashioned flattop haircut and gaunt face gave him a severe, overbearing look that made him seem taller than he really was.
“And speaking of bs, did I just hear you’re going on leave? What’s the plan? To help some little ole ladies make doilies at Bible camp?” He stepped closer so he could lean in and hiss his next question: “More to the point, are you planning to come back this time, or will you disappear to herd goats for another three years?”
Jaime gritted her teeth. Why did this man have to be so difficult? What did she ever do to him?
Well, okay, so she did manage to get herself kidnapped and then disappear for three years while serving in the brigade for which Jenkins was the executive officer. He took a lot of heat for that, and blamed Jaime because he didn’t get selected for battalion command. And now he was leading the night crew of the support operations staff for the COSCOM, not what would be considered a plum assignment.
But Jaime refused to let him bait her right now. There was nothing she could do or say that would change his attitude about her, so it was best to just walk away without adding fuel to the fire.
“I’ll see you in a few weeks, sir.” Jaime gave a half salute in Jenkins’ direction as she headed down the hall. Then, smiling, she called back over her shoulder, “I’ll be sure and bring you a doily!”
Jaime returned to the operations center to shut off her computer and gather her belongings. Simultaneously, a civilian at an Army Material Command workstation two rows above shut off his computer, picked up a large backpack and another sling, and headed for the door.
January 24, 2007, 5:50 a.m.
(3 days, 4 hours, 40 minutes until end of auction)
Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea
Israel
* * *
“There you are,” Tarif said with a smile as he rounded an outcropping and found the young girl sitting by a makeshift pen that held four goats. “Why aren’t you down with everyone else, getting ready for the wedding?”
“There’s time enough,” she said in a dutiful voice that nonetheless conveyed her lack
of excitement about the proceedings.
Tarif came over to his cousin, took her hands, and stretched out her arms fully to admire her new dress. She almost gave up her frown at his obvious approval. When he reached out to touch the soft material of the kerchief on her head, she blushed. He knew it wasn’t from modesty as much as it was that he understood what she was doing. She was only ten–not old enough quite yet to be expected to cover her head. But it was a wedding, she had a new dress, and she wanted to seem grown-up.
Tarif sat down next to her. “My little Safia. Soon you’ll be wearing braids,” he said, and his cousin blushed again. He sat down beside her companionably, as he’d done since they were small. He was fifteen now, and soon–when she started wearing braids and a kerchief for real–they’d no longer be allowed to talk together like this. Their times alone were nearly over, and they both knew it.
“When did you get back?” she asked.
“Last night. Just before the men’s meeting. It was a long meeting. Lots of arguing.” He’d meant it to sound offhand, the fact that he’d attended his first meeting as a grown-up.
She fully caught the implication, and watched his face carefully as he continued.
“The Hajj is selling the box,” he went on.
She knelt and leaned in toward him, her large eyes an unexpected blue, dancing with emotion. “Did he say it’s because of Ibrahim and Ali?” she asked.
Two of their cousins had illnesses that could only be cured with either surgery or long-term medical care.
“Partly. And partly because we have to move into the future.”
“You mean stay in the town,” she said.
“I don’t know what you have against living in a town,” said Tarif.
“Why would I want to live in a box?” answered Safia. “What’s to like about it? What’s happening to the Jahalin frightens me. I don’t want to be stuck in a metal box. I like the open air. I like the goats.”
She’d stumbled straight into Tarif’s passion. “But we’re not going to be warehoused like the Bedouin in the Negev, or forced into little camps like the Jahalin,” he said. “I can see what you have against the towns the Bedouin have now. But the reason Bedouin towns are so…so stupid is because we don’t have any great architects. Not builders, architects. Those are the people who design buildings to look fine. What if we could design a town to look graceful and spacious? What if our houses could look like tents…inviting, huge tents with flowing curves and wonderful colors? Only they had heat and air-conditioning and running water? What if you walked into a town and it looked like a magical tent city?”
Safia was staring at him now. “What are you talking about?”
“I want to do it, Safia. I want to be an architect. I want to dream big. I want us to have even better houses than the Israelis!”
The young girl stood up and dusted off her skirt and the pants below it. “You know I believe in you,” she said. “I always have. I’ve always promised to tell you when you sounded crazy. Now, you sound crazy.”
He smiled at her, his thick black hair blowing around his face under his kaffiyeh.
Her face was oval and her mouth was wide. “Stay a moment. We may not get to talk again before the wedding,” he said. “I hear you’re not going back to school.”
“No,” she said.
“I wish you would.”
All Bedouin children in Israel had to attend school now, through the elementary grades. It was Israeli law. Continuing education was offered to them, both boys and girls, through high school, but the attrition rate for girls was enormous. Westerners often said it was because the Bedouin didn’t believe women were of enough value to be educated. But the Bedouin girls knew they had to choose. The high school classes were coeducational. Girls could choose to attend, but their status among the eligible Bedouin men would plummet. Girls and boys of marriageable age did not mix freely with the opposite sex; everyone knew that. The girls could do it, some did, and their virtue wasn’t questioned–but their values were, and their modesty was.
She looked at the ground. “I want…”
“What? What is it that you want?”
“I want…to be the first wife of the big tent.”
When Tarif knelt down to raise her head, he saw the tear tracks on her face. “That is certainly a worthy goal, and you would make any man a worthy wife,” he said. “Why does it make you cry?”
All she said was, “You’re so smart. Why must you become an ark…an ark…”
“Architect,” he supplied. “What’s wrong with that?”
But she shook her head.
“Come now. We must head for camp. Everyone’s awake. The women are cooking and I’m sure they want your help. There will be feasting. Day after tomorrow is the bride’s henna night! I’m sure you’ll learn some new songs!” he said with a wink. Weddings were the one time even the devout among them were allowed to be bawdy.
“Why does the Hajj need a new wife, anyway?” she asked, slowly disassembling the little goat pen she’d made.
“His first wife died two years ago,” Tarif answered. “And his second wife no longer pleases him.”
“What about his third wife? And the new one is so young!”
“More luck to him. I’m told the bride is in favor of the match, so we don’t need to wail for her.”
“He’s an old goat,” Safia said under her breath, but she knew Tarif could hear her. She knew he was the only one to whom she could possibly say something like that, without fear of it being repeated.
“He is,” agreed her handsome cousin. “But tell me, Safia, tell me honestly. Do you think my dreams are too big? Will the djinn, the evil spirits, try to trip me?”
“No,” she said softly. “I think your dreams are just the right size for you. I am the one who wants too much.”
“I think I know what will cheer you up. Want to come?”
“Suleiman is watching the horses now?”
“Yes. And I believe he’s expecting us to stop by. But can you ride in your new outfit?”
“What good is an outfit if it can’t sit a horse?” she asked, suddenly excited and alive.
Tarif grabbed a branch off a scrappy shrub and started helping her herd the goats back to camp.
She watched him walk ahead of her, saw how tall he was, how confident, how handsome. And she knew she wanted too much: she not only wanted to be the first wife of the big tent; she wanted the handsomest, strongest, best husband, as well.
She could not have both. It could not be.
January 24, 2007, 7:28 a.m.
(3 days, 4 hours, 2 minutes until end of auction)
Tallil, Iraq
* * *
The grand ziggurat rose from the ground below her like a giant gold-red sandcastle. Jaime couldn’t take her eyes off it even as the Army C-23 Sherpa aircraft descended from an altitude of 7,500 feet, flying fast and dodging towers and power lines into the Ali Air Base at Tallil. Nearly four years earlier, during the opening days of Operation Iraqi Freedom, Tallil had been her base. She’d left on a two-day trip to assist a chaplain at Baghdad Airport but had been kidnapped along the way. She hadn’t been back to Tallil, to the ancient ruins at Ur, until now.
This was it–the place where her unexpected, life-changing adventure had all begun.
This was also where she’d met Yani, the most arrogant, secretive, competent, handsome–infuriating–Sword who walked the Terris world.
Jaime had no way of knowing it at the time, but Yani was a legend to those from Eden in his role as Sword 23. He was six feet tall, with thick dark brown hair that curled when it was wet, brown eyes that transfixed you, and a natural presence that filled any room. The missions he had completed were impossibly dangerous, the stakes unbearably high, the results life changing for those he helped.
He had been her partner on her last assignment. He’d been the first man since the death of her husband, Paul, with whom she’d fallen in love. Jaime was certain there were many women who had fa
llen in love with Yani.
But Yani had also fallen in love with her.
It had all started here, with him abducting her among the ruins of Ur.
At the completion of their last assignment, at the same time that Jaime had resigned her Operative status, she’d broken off her relationship with him. She’d left Yani, not because of lies–he was irritatingly straightforward–but because of his complicated truth. And the fact that his truth would always be complicated.
At the time it had seemed to Jaime they had a fundamental difference that made a relationship impossible: Jaime was people focused, while Yani was mission focused. It was who he was. She couldn’t live with that.
The question she’d wrestled with daily since then was whether she could live without Yani.
It was a moot point. She had no way of contacting him, and they would certainly never be assigned to work together again. Jaime had removed herself from his rarified universe, and she knew she’d never be invited back in.
She hadn’t heard or seen Yani, or anything from or about him, for a year. So how did the memory of him striding across the ruins at Ur still make her breathing ragged in a way that even the combat landing had failed to do?
She had less pleasant memories here, as well. Of nearly being captured in an ambush on the road. Of meeting Frank McMillan, a CIA agent who turned out to be both cunning and dangerous.
The Army C-23 Sherpa aircraft rolled to a stop in front of a soldier wearing a light green flight suit with orange reflector vest. The soldier signaled for the pilot to shut down the engine, which brought a collective sigh of relief from the seven passengers on webbed seating in the hold of the aircraft. The last fifteen minutes of the flight had been like an amusement park ride, only the thrills–and the danger–were real.
Another passenger, a civilian, hunkered way back in the last seat near a pallet of medical supplies. He looked positively green! He had boarded the Sherpa with Richards at Balad, and was dressed in nondescript khakis and a plain navy blue polo shirt over which he wore black Dragon Skin flexible body armor.
Treasure of Eden Page 3
