Treasure of Eden

by Sherer, B. K. ; Linnea, Sharon

  She studied his face in the firelight, the confusion, the yearning. She put her hand behind his head, and she kissed him.

  Well, she began the kiss. When he joined in, it was like the fire had jumped from the grate to encompass them both. The electricity in his touch ignited her body again and again.

  The sheer outer robe came off, as did his shirt. He was so sturdy, and handsome, romantic, talented, bighearted…

  He was her Mark.

  The straps of her nightgown had fallen from her shoulders long ago. It felt natural for him to lay her on the soft rug and follow a line of kisses, from her mouth to her neck, slipping the top of her nightgown down to her waist. He caressed her breasts, kissing them, taking each nipple into his mouth, causing a bolt of lightning to shoot through her body, all the way down to her toes. She gasped, and stretched beneath him.

  Silent tears began to run down her cheeks. Mark looked up and saw them, glinting in the firelight. And then they both heard it–a bell tone. Mark looked up at the fireplace where a small red button was flashing.

  “Bloody hell,” he said.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Apparently there’s a phone call–or something that needs seeing to–that the staff has judged important enough to call me at this inopportune moment. Damn! I’m sorry, Jaime. Let me take care of it and tell them to turn off the system. The world can turn for one night without me.”

  “It’s probably Larry Page from Google, who just heard you left town before the bash.”

  Mark grinned, stroked her hair, and said, “Anyway, I was just thinking that the only thing that would make this any more perfect would be if we had a bottle of local champagne. And fortunately, I happen to have one, chilled, in just the next room. I’ll grab it on my way back.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “May this be the beginning of a long, and very perfect, night,” he said.

  Before he stood, Mark leaned across and kissed the tracks of her tears. “Don’t cry,” he whispered. “He would be happy for us. I know he would.”

  Jaime smiled at him and nodded. And as he momentarily left the room, she put the backs of her hands up to wipe the moisture from her face. What was killing her–killing her–at this moment was that the tears were not for Paul.

  They were because the fine, handsome, talented, wonderful man who was kissing her was not Yani.

  January 25, 2007, 11:27 p.m.

  (1 day, 10 hours, 3 minutes until end of auction)

  Lac-Argent, France

  * * *

  She was lying on her stomach on the soft white tufted rug when he returned. She’d brought a small pillow down from the sofa, and was watching the hypnotic dance of the fire, losing herself in the music.

  “So sorry to disturb this romantic moment,” came an unexpected male voice.

  Jaime sat bolt upright, grabbing at the top of her nightgown, holding it against her chest. It was not Mark Shepard returning with champagne.

  It was the barrel of a gun, pointed directly at her, held in front of a man who stood in the shadows.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” she sputtered. It sounded like bad movie dialogue, but this had nothing to do with what she was expecting. She had been off duty. She’d turned off the ever-watchful part of her brain.

  “I’m an old friend.”

  “Of Shepard’s? I don’t understand.”

  “No, Jaime Lynn Richards. Chaplain. Major. An old friend of yours. We have some unfinished business. I hate loose ends; don’t you?”

  “An old friend of mine?”

  She was completely confused. How did this guy know who she was? All her Operative “toys” were back in her room. This couldn’t be happening.

  But wait–Mark. And Derrick, the security guy.

  “Help!” she yelled. “Intruder! Help!”

  The gun didn’t waver. The man didn’t get angry, or tell her to stop.

  “Sorry, waste of time,” he said. “Come on now. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  As he moved into the light, her mouth dropped open with amazement. “Yep. Frank McMillan. CIA. Sorry I don’t have any Vanilla Diet Cokes. I know they’re a favorite of yours.”

  Frank McMillan?

  Dear God, dear God, dear God! He was the rogue CIA agent who’d been in on her kidnapping during her first tour in Iraq. According to Yani, Frank was the one who’d wantonly killed half a dozen of his own guards, just for the hell of it.

  Why was he here?

  “Let me explain what’s going to happen. You’re going to stand up, and come with me. We’re not going to go far. We’re going to have a little chat. If you’re cooperative, I’m sure I’ll be in a good mood. If you’re not, well, I get to hurt you, which means I’ll be in an even better mood. Let’s get going.”

  Jaime was running scenarios in which she could disarm him. It was made considerably harder by the fact that the satin sheath she still wore was so figure hugging and tight.

  “Here’s the thing. You try to take my gun, you get shot. In fact, at any point, you’re not completely cooperative, you get shot. Not killed, shot. I’m a pro at this. I know just where the bullet should hit to kill you, slowly. Very slowly. Your old friend Adara? My handiwork. Dead woman walking. So. You want I should shoot you now, or you want to stay in one piece for a few more minutes?”

  Dear God, how could someone so brazenly brag about killing someone slowly, let alone someone as smart and kind as Jaime’s friend–and Yani’s sister–Adara? But Adara had thwarted Frank; she’d escaped, even though mortally wounded, and gotten important information to Jaime and Yani.

  Jaime knew better than to taunt Frank with this information. The safety was off his gun. He pointed it toward the side of her abdomen.

  Jaime stood up. She pulled the straps back up onto her shoulders, and reached down for the robe.

  “Don’t need it,” he said. “Walk.”

  Jaime turned around, and walked.

  January 25, 2007, 11:44 p.m.

  (1 day, 9 hours, 46 minutes until end of auction)

  Lac-Argent, France

  * * *

  Frank McMillan forced her across the side lawn at gunpoint. They left the estate–with no sign of Mark or Derrick the security man–and crossed the old, cobbled street toward the medieval church. She’d seen a car, which she assumed to be Frank’s, parked under the row of trees that delineated Shepard’s property. The town beyond was completely dark.

  She knew if she made a sound, he would shoot her.

  It was clear that, although the church was still in use, the bell tower was not. The only approach was through the ancient cemetery. They wove through simple headstones until they reached the entrance. Weathered planks had been nailed across the rotting door. They had recently been removed.

  Frank shoved the door open just wide enough for him and Jaime to enter, pushing her through first.

  With a sweep of his flashlight, he illuminated the old stone stairs that led up in a square pattern, following the outer wall of the tower. There were no windows on the first floor, or on the second. He took her up to the third. The stairs ended. There were still no windows. An old wooden ladder led up from that floor to what was once a trapdoor to the belfry.

  On this third level, Frank was already set up.

  A canvas bag was thrown against one wall, a lantern on the floor opposite it. Frank turned on the lantern. The room flickered into stark relief of light and shadow.

  A large wooden post was fixed into the center of the floor and ran up into the ceiling. It was about a foot wide, had been squared. Two-thirds of the way up, there was an old iron ring attached to each of the sides.

  Frank McMillan stood, looking at her. He looked healthier and more robust than she remembered him. He had a better haircut; that much was certain. She knew he was remorseless and dangerous. She had no clue what he wanted from her.

  “What did you do with Shepard, and the others?” she asked.

  “Since when is this your inte
rview?” he asked. It was as if he found her continued presence of mind amusing. But she’d been trained to remain calm in situations such as this–to show neither fear nor insolence.

  “Here’s the thing,” he said.

  There was nothing she hated more than Frank McMillan’s “here’s the thing”s.

  “Usually, we’d sit down, I’d explain what information I need from you, and we’d enjoy a nice talk. However, since I don’t want to worry about you trying to bolt down the stairs–I’d rather not shoot you first thing–I’m going to restrain you from the get-go. One less thing to worry about.”

  Jaime stood, trying to remain impassive.

  “Do you recognize what the post is in front of you?”

  “No.” Although she could hazard a guess.

  “In the Middle Ages, the Church–indeed, many scientists–thought demons were responsible for a whole slew of things. Mental illness, infertility, uppity behavior in women. This is a demon-removal post. You bring the miscreant up here, and beat him or her until you get the submissive, non-demonic behavior you seek.

  “But don’t worry. I’m fully expecting satisfying answers from you without resorting to any medieval remedies. Right wrist, please.”

  He’d gotten a pair of metal handcuffs from the duffel. She held out her wrist and he snapped one on. Then he ran the cuff through the metal ring on the post in front of her. “Other wrist,” he said. She complied, and he pulled her left arm up and snapped the other cuff around her wrist, several inches above her head. The position wasn’t immediately uncomfortable, but it soon would be.

  “There. Now we can concentrate on more important topics. Because I’m in a generous mood, let’s start with answering your question. Mr. Shepard and his security man are fine. In fact, it was Mr. Shepard who handed you over to me. You could have stood there and hollered all night. They had no intention of helping you. In fact, they’d worked hard on keeping you occupied, and your guard down, until I arrived. So. No use in looking for help from that quarter.”

  Jaime knew she wasn’t supposed to contradict her captor, but everything in her posture betrayed the fact that she couldn’t believe that Mark would ever do anything to assist someone like Frank.

  “You’re looking doubtful,” Frank said, almost happily. “Let’s see, how did the plan go? Lunch in Laret–then, wait! Change of plans. Fly with him to a remote location, where he can have you disarmed and waiting until the nice CIA agent has time to arrive. Ring any bells?”

  Jaime closed her eyes. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.

  “Oh, it took a bit of persuading. It took threatening terrible harm to something Shepard obviously values more than he values you. Ah, well. Everyone has their price. Now. On to the night’s business. I assume you know why I’m here?”

  After his first statement, it was hard for her to track what he was asking. The idea that Mark had brought her here, romanced her, brought up his ties to Paul, kissed her–all to turn her over to a trained, demented CIA agent? She had seen many betrayals in her time, but she had never felt one so deep in her gut.

  Frank nudged her.

  “What?” she said.

  “Why I’m here. Your guess.”

  “You had something to do with the plot in Davos?”

  “Davos? Plot? Which one?”

  She kept her voice neutral. “Then I guess I don’t know.”

  “Take a look at this.” He held a color picture in front of her. It showed a rectangular box with a gem on each side and two on the top.

  “Mean anything to you?”

  “I’ve never seen it.”

  “The gems. Ruby, lapis, emerald, mother-of-pearl, carnelian, bdellium. An odd combination of six stones. As fate would have it, the six are mentioned in the book of Genesis as those found plentiful in Eden. Ringing any bells yet?”

  The blood had all left her hands and upper arms now, and the muscles in her shoulders were beginning to burn.

  “No. Sorry. It looks like a nice box. But I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Jaime, Jaime, Jaime. Back to your friend Adara. I believe she owned a bracelet encircled by those very same jewels.”

  She knew he brought up Adara to upset her, throw her off balance. As much as she loved Adara, as furious as she was at Adara’s murder, she couldn’t take the bait. She couldn’t go there.

  “I believe these gems are tied in to the location of the spot called Eden. I lost two close comrades who were looking for the location. It pisses me off to lose comrades, especially when the mission is incomplete. But I think you can help me find the missing puzzle pieces. I believe you know about Eden. I think you know the importance of those six jewels, and their link to this secret place. I even think…you’ve been there.”

  Jaime’s expression remained completely impassive.

  “Let’s start with some easier questions. After we last spoke, at Ali Air Base in Iraq, you disappeared for nearly three years. Where were you?”

  “Someone kidnapped me. I was badly injured in the process. A family of goat herders kept me safe and nursed me back to health. When I began to regain my memory, they took me to a highway where I could be found by American troops.”

  “Goat herders.”

  “Yes. The type of goats we had was called Talli.”

  “And your kidnapper, what happened to him?”

  “Somehow I think he was killed. But I don’t remember it, and it wasn’t my doing.”

  Frank took two paces back, toward his bag. “Okay. To recap. So far tonight, I’ve given vague threats; you’ve given your cover story. It’s time to move on.”

  His voice had turned into a kind of growl. “Not to keep beating a dead horse, so to speak, but your friend Adara bravely–and foolishly, as it turned out–refused to give my comrade and me the information we sought. I was forced to resort to drugging her, which worked very well. I’m sure you’ll become quite the Chatty Cathy, too, once you’re properly doped. But lots of extraneous talk comes with the territory. I don’t have time for that. It’s my theory that you’re a normal person. A nice girl. A chaplain, for God’s sake. True, nice girls don’t usually drop civilian contractors. Nice girls don’t leave Iraq just when jeweled boxes go up for auction. Still, I don’t believe you realize the game you’re playing is dreadfully real.”

  He walked up to her, and ran something hard across her bare shoulder blades, where the nightgown was backless.

  “It’s my guess that when you realize it’s real, not a fun game of spies, you’ll be much more forthcoming. So. Let’s restart the conversation.” Now he brought the back of a large black whip up to where she could see it in her peripheral vision.

  “Here is your part of the conversation: ‘I know what’s in Eden. This is how you get there…’”

  It made it easier for Jaime that she didn’t know how to get there. No matter what he did to her. That was what Swords were for, why only the Swords knew how to get in and out.

  Jaime took a breath. At the Operative training center at Mountaintop, she’d been taught to withstand torture. She’d been trained to protect her mind, to compartmentalize pain. She had to get there, to that place, before he started hurting her.

  But first, she had to stop thinking about Mark, about the horrible thing he’d done to her. She had to stop wondering why he had, what atrocity Frank had threatened. She had to get a grip.

  “How you get to Eden is…,” Frank coaxed.

  Jaime fell back on the script, and the familiarity of it comforted her. “You’re seeking information I don’t have, Mr. McMillan. You can do to me whatever you want, but the fact is, you think there’s a place called Eden, and you think I know how to get there. I don’t. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to hurt me, but even if you do, it won’t change the fact that I can’t give you the information you seek.”

  “This is the fun part,” he said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. “This is the part where we find out what happens when the pain becomes real.”

&nbs
p; FRIDAY

  January 26, 2007, 12:02 a.m.

  (1 day, 9 hours, 28 minutes until end of auction)

  Lac--Argent, France

  * * *

  The first stroke hit Jaime so hard that it not only tore the skin of her upper back and bit into her muscle; it knocked the wind out of her as well.

  She knew she was at the critical point. There comes a time in torture, when the pain has been severe long enough, that your mind takes a vacation on its own. Until then, she had to lead it to safety. So she did as she’d practiced so many times, and removed her conscious mind from her body.

  She took it to a safe place in a cave in Iran, where colorful soft pillows, in blues, reds, and golds, surrounded her. She could hear the bleats of the goats in her herd outside; she even knew which mother and which kid she heard loudest.

  The second blow hit below the first one, and wrapped nearly all the way around her torso. She knew, in the part of her brain that was watching the proceedings, that she screamed with each stroke, that the nerve receptors from her torn muscles were sending messages to her brain, where the neurons were firing at the pain center like mad. The wise woman at the gate of her brain’s pain receptors willingly accepted the messages, acknowledged there was pain, the pain was caused by injury, and replied it would be seen to. For now, it would have to be accepted.

  In the cave, there were flowers. For some reason, she could smell tuberose. There was no tuberose in Iran, but she loved tuberose, and its scent enveloped her.

  “I’m sorry,” said Frank. “I’m ruining the front of your nightgown.” And he put the handle of the whip under the thin spaghetti strap on her right shoulder and snapped it. He did the same to the left strap. The top front of her gown fell to her waist.

  She heard music then, wonderful, Middle Eastern music, the kind you couldn’t help dancing to. It surrounded her in her cave, and brought the spicy smell of ginger with it.

  The observer part of her knew he’d exposed her breasts to humiliate her, but he’d done it too late. Her mind and her spirit were no longer present in that body. They were concerned for it, and grateful to it, but no longer involved with it.