Treasure of Eden

by Sherer, B. K. ; Linnea, Sharon

  The third blow was higher, and tore the soft skin of her right breast as it wove around. Her body instinctively leaned in closer to the pole for protection.

  “Eden is in Iraq, is that right?” Frank’s voice was conversational. “It won’t kill you to say. It’s easy. So easy. It’s in Iraq. Where? Southern Iraq? Say the word, I stop.”

  “You’re doing so well. I’m proud of you,” said the kindly goatherd as he lit a fire in the cave, but as he spoke, she realized it wasn’t the goatherd’s voice at all. He stepped aside, and Yani walked into her cave. His eyes shone with concern for her. “You’ve learned well,” he said. “I’m proud.”

  Yani wasn’t supposed to be in this cave, this safe place in her mind she’d prepared for such a night as this. But, as the fourth stroke hit her, down low, across her lower back, she let him in. She let him touch her face.

  “I’m sorry for what I said to you,” she said to Yani, through her tears.

  “What?” asked Frank.

  “I’m sorry,” Jaime repeated, and reedited her comment for Frank. “I’m sorry I don’t know how to help you.”

  In the safety of her cave, she fell to the ground, and curled up. She couldn’t help that tears were streaking her face. She felt Yani stroking her hair, and she was peaceful.

  In the tower, as Frank brought the whip back for the next blow, his personal cell phone kicked to life. He stopped for a moment, annoyed, and then recognized the ring tone.

  “Sorry, honey,” he said. “I’ve got to take this.”

  And he scooted down the stone steps before hitting the button to connect.

  January 26, 2007, 12:16 a.m.

  (1 day, 9 hours, 14 minutes until end of auction)

  Lac-Argent, France

  * * *

  The observer part of her sounded the alert, and Jaime snapped back to consciousness. Frank might only be gone a few minutes. She had to work fast.

  Thank God he had only used one pair of cuffs. She’d been afraid he was going to cuff each hand separately to opposite sides of the pole, which would have made escape much harder. And thank God that she was military–even when she wasn’t wearing her usual French braid, she ended up sticking bobby pins into her hair to hold it back somewhere.

  Jaime could barely reach her head with her thumbs, but she did finally, and was able to reach a bobby pin. Unfortunately, it had the little plastic nubs on each end, and she couldn’t reach her mouth to pull them off. She’d felt one more bobby pin, so she took a chance and dropped the first one.

  With the second one, she had success. One end of it had no plastic nub.

  The height of the iron ring put her arms at an odd angle, but failure was not an option. She worked her hand positions until one hand could reach the cuff on the other wrist. The lantern didn’t throw much light, but she could see the small hole that could spring the cuffs if she could fit the bobby pin in.

  She’d gotten really good at this at Mountaintop. She’d never been in exactly this position, and her muscles had never been screaming with this much pain, but she’d taken off dozens of pairs of handcuffs…Steady…Concentrate…

  When the cuff sprang open and her arm was released, she collapsed onto the floor, nearly weeping with relief. But she didn’t have time for relief. She wasn’t out yet.

  If Frank had taken the stairs to a level below her, she had only one choice…to go up and see if there was any escape route at all out of this place.

  Jaime took a chance and spent twenty seconds springing the second handcuff, since wearing it even on one wrist would undoubtedly slow her down. She left them on the floor and went to the ladder in the corner.

  She hadn’t expected her back and shoulders where the whip had torn her flesh to protest the climb so severely. But she had to get out. Had to. Pain would be dealt with later. She forced her arms to cooperate as she climbed through to the next floor.

  There were windows. A series of small, rectangular holes cut through the blocks of stone. She thought she could possibly squeeze through one.

  But to where?

  She peered out. In the darkness, she could see the church roof about a story and a half below. But the bad news was, the church roof was tiled and it was slanted. If she landed on the wrong spot, she could slip off and fall to severe injury.

  Although she still heard Frank’s voice in conversation below, she knew she didn’t have time to delay. She’d have to go, and she’d have to do it now. It was either risk further injury by falling from the church roof or invite drawn-out death at the hands of Frank.

  She’d risk the roof.

  Jaime looked out again, gauging where the top ridge of the roof was. It seemed to be below the center rectangle. She was going to try to angle herself feet first.

  Fortunately, the window was close enough to the floor that she could climb into it and turn herself slightly.

  The rock bit into her raw back and she bit her lip. It hurt like hell.

  There was no way for her to look behind her. She lowered her legs out, and caught herself by her hands. Fortunately, the whip hadn’t bitten into her arms, but her shoulder muscles objected mightily as she tried to keep control and lower herself as much as she could before she dropped.

  Then she let go.

  She did a slight turn as she fell, and was able to catch hold of the ridge of the roof as she landed. The roof had clay tiles, and she cried out in pain as her exposed breasts scraped against them. She knew she’d gained some cuts and abrasions, but the pain of the hard landing itself was what caused her to lie for a moment on her stomach, gasping language she wouldn’t want to have to explain to General Culver, and catching her breath.

  When she finally looked to the side, she found, to her great relief, that the church was built in a clearing between the stream and the road. The road curved up around a hillside and came up and around the side of the church. She half-crawled, half-climbed across the roof to the far edge, from which it was a doable drop to the rock wall that ran along the cobbled road.

  She was out.

  Now what?

  She held the top of her nightgown against her, although it was sticky with blood. She ran barefoot across the road and through the trees on the edge of Shepard’s property. She let herself sit for a moment behind Frank’s car.

  He hadn’t locked it. She opened the door silently and looked inside, searching for anything that might help her in her own escape. But the car was clean. Nothing in it at all–and no keys, of course. Most likely a recent rental.

  Jaime tried to think clearly. She needed to get as far away from Frank, from this place, as possible. But she also needed to get her Operative handheld and some clothing.

  Dare she go back to the manor?

  The ground floor was still dark; front windows lining the second floor–including her bedroom–were dark. Mark’s rooms on the second floor faced the back, and she couldn’t tell if they were lit or not.

  If she could get her handheld, she could summon help.

  She decided to try getting back in and out of her room as quickly as possible.

  Jaime stayed in the shadow of the shrubs that lined the long drive as she approached the manor. She tried the side door that led to the housekeeper’s apartments–and to the back staircase–but the door was locked.

  Frank had brought her down the center stairs, and there had been no one there to witness their descent. She might have to try it.

  She hurried along the cobbled courtyard to the front door. She snuck a peek through the window on the right side of the door. The entry room, from which the stairs commenced, was vacant. There was a small automatic night-light still burning.

  Jaime held her breath as she put her hand on the doorknob. It turned, and the door opened, silently. No alarms, no voices, no security guy. Nothing. She stepped into the welcome hall. As she took her hand off the outer knob to close the door from inside, she noticed that the outer handle was sticky–most likely with her blood.

  Oh, well. All the bad gu
ys knew she was here, and likely knew she was bleeding. If it helped leave a trail for the authorities, more the better.

  From there, she didn’t hesitate. She hurried to the bottom of the stairs, crept up as quickly as possible, and hurried down the corridor that led to her room.

  The small suitcase with the new clothes purchased for her sat open. The fact that Mark Shepard had gone to so much trouble to lure her here hurt as much as her torn skin. She pulled off the bloody nightgown and left it in a heap on the floor. Her back was so sticky–she’d give anything to take a shower. But the sound of water running through the pipes made the idea too risky. Instead, she pulled on bikini briefs and held up the jeans. They were low riders, and she thought they’d fall below where she’d been whipped. Gingerly, she pulled them on, and found she’d been correct. Now what? She perused the tops, knowing she couldn’t choose anything that would be tight enough to touch her back or sides.

  Jaime took the Zurich sweatshirt, which looked roomy, and pulled it over her head. She relaxed slightly, as it didn’t actually touch her except on the top of her shoulders and arms. She’d been wearing boots up at the hillside restaurant with Andrea. She didn’t really need or want them, but they seemed a better choice than bare feet.

  Jaime then grabbed her purse, and made sure her handheld was where she’d left it before slipping to the front window. She stood behind a side curtain to look out. Everything was quiet.

  Time to go.

  She silently pulled open the door to her room and scanned the dark hall. Nothing. This time, she turned the opposite way, went through the old wooden door to the servant stairs, and hurried down through the silent dark. The stairs ended in an old-fashioned keeping room, with a mudroom and outer door to the left.

  Jaime took a deep breath and exited into the night air.

  January 26, 2007, 12:32 a.m.

  (1 day, 9 hours, 58 minutes until end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  Yasmin heard her father’s voice calling her from outside the tent. She sat up at once, surprised and happy, and ran to the door. Her father stood, tall and handsome beneath the full moon. He held in one hand a dress, of blues and greens, covered with coins and precious jewels that shimmered in the moonlight.

  “For you, my little one,” he said. “My gift to you. A wedding dress.”

  Yasmin felt her chest fill with hope and happiness. She opened her arms to run to him. She couldn’t move. The tent flap was open–she could feel the desert breeze. There was nothing by her feet to trip her, and yet she couldn’t move.

  “Father,” she called.

  “Don’t you want it?” he asked, and he began to fade away.

  “Father, yes, yes! Don’t go!” Yasmin called. She felt something warm on her neck, and batted it away with her hands. But it remained.

  She opened her eyes, and she was still in her tent on her mats in the dark. And the Monster was next to her, his breath hot on her face.

  “No!” she said, and she began to struggle.

  “Shut up, you little whore,” he said, and he was holding her so she couldn’t move, and climbing on top of her.

  And then from the darkness beyond came another voice.

  “No,” said her mother. Her voice was quiet but like steel. “No. Not the night before her henna night. No.”

  The Monster looked up, ready to say something dismissive to his wife, to cow her.

  But she spoke again. “You will never touch my daughter again. You will never again beat my son. Because if you do, I will go to the council. I will tell them what you do. Not only in this tent, but beyond. I will tell everything.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he said. “You would be called a liar. You would end up forsaken and alone.”

  “Even if they thought that of me, perhaps they would not believe that my daughter, the wife of the Hajj, is a liar also. Perhaps they would not believe that my son, the nephew of the chief, is a liar. But even if they did, we would be better off alone.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Touch either of them again and you will see what I dare,” she said. “Now go to bed.” And Yasmin’s mother turned away.

  Yasmin waited a moment, hardly daring to breathe.

  Finally the Monster rolled off of her, and moved heavily to his mat.

  And Yasmin lay in the dark, and tried to think of nothing but the colors of the wedding dress her father would bring her, if he could.

  January 26, 2007, 12:34 a.m.

  (1 day, 8 hours, 56 minutes until end of auction)

  Lac-Argent, France

  * * *

  Jaime lay on her stomach in the midst of Shepard’s vineyard. Op kidnapped, injured, escaped, she’d texted. Need help.

  “And probably therapy,” she muttered under her breath. “Shepard, damn you anyway.”

  The reply was instantaneous. Go onto frequency J, it said.

  Frequency J was the highest-priority frequency, with the highest security feed. Everything said or texted would be scrambled in such a way that it could only be decoded by another J-frequency communication device.

  “Jaime, are you all right? What on earth is going on?” She recognized the male voice as that of C4, one of the seven Operative Coordinators overseeing different regions of the Terris world.

  “I’m injured, but it’s not life threatening,” she said softly. “I was kidnapped from the home of a friend–well, I thought he was a friend–by Frank McMillan, the CIA guy who worked against Adara and me in Iraq in ’03,” she said.

  “You’re injured?”

  “Yes. Painful, but non–life threatening. I’m out now. But he’s still here somewhere.”

  “We’ve got you on the scanner; we’re arranging for pickup right now. Where were you when you were kidnapped?”

  “At the home of Mark Shepard. McMillan claims they worked together to procure me.”

  “Why?”

  “McMillan wanted information. He showed me a photo of some sort of antique box that had the Six Sisters. He wanted to know about it. He’s still hunting for information about Eden.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Jaime raised her head and looked toward the tower. She thought she saw the shadow of a figure moving through the graveyard.

  “He’s about two hundred yards away from where I’m hidden. He’s looking for me. He’s got a car parked here at Shepard’s estate, but he’s across the street in the old churchyard.”

  “Okay. Stay down. Back with instructions in a moment.”

  The night was clear and very, very cold. Jaime noticed the cold because she hadn’t put on the white ski parka she’d been wearing on her adventure with Andrea. Partly because it would have pushed the sweatshirt down onto her injured back but mostly because it sported a wide stripe of reflective tape.

  To her surprise, the next voice she heard was a female voice.

  “Jaime. This is TC2. C4 has given me your information.” TC2 was one of two Terris Coordinators who oversaw all the Operative missions and reported directly to Clement, the head of Operatives in Eden. Her call had been bumped up, and quickly.

  “Jaime. Describe your injuries to me. Do you need to be treated by a physician?”

  “McMillan gave me four strokes across my back with a whip before I escaped. Hurts like anything, but I’m okay.”

  “By ‘okay’ do you mean you can continue to work? Be honest with me.”

  “What do you need?” Jaime asked.

  “I need you to follow Frank McMillan. Get as much information as you can about what he knows and where he’s going. Do you have any means by which to do this?”

  “I don’t have any locator devices. I had one in Davos, but I used it on Woodbury.”

  “You don’t have access to a car?”

  “No.”

  As she said that, she saw Frank’s lantern turn on in the churchyard. Apparently he’d given up looking for her and was headed back to
the estate. His lantern disappeared around the front of the church as he walked to the road that wound up toward Mark’s.

  “How important is this?” Jaime couldn’t believe she was asking.

  “Vital. He’s stumbled onto the current critical.”

  The “current critical” was the most important mission going at any given time.

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  It was a split-second decision that would either work brilliantly or be a fatal error. Jaime stayed as low as she could and hurried to Frank’s BMW. She hesitated because she knew opening the door would likely turn on the dome light.

  But she did it. She pulled open the driver’s side door, and pulled the small lever on the floor that popped the trunk. Then she shut the door as quietly and quickly as possible. She ran to the back of the vehicle, climbed into the trunk, and pulled it closed.

  Jaime landed on her back, and it was all she could do not to scream. Instead, she fought to regulate her breathing and wait until the waves of pain subsided.

  Through the small gap between the pull-down armrest and the backseat, she could see that the interior light had dimmed and gone out.

  It was only then, in the dark, that she had a moment to think. What if Frank went back into the manor house for a few hours? What then?

  What if he decided to throw his duffel into the trunk?

  As she heard his footfalls approach, she frantically typed in: OS(observe silence).

  Where are you? came the texted question.

  I’m in his trunk, she replied. He’s getting in.

  The door behind the driver’s seat opened and he threw something inside. Probably his duffel. Thank God.

  Then he opened the driver’s side door and sat down heavily.

  “She’s gone and I can’t take the time to find her,” he said into his phone.

  He put the key into the ignition and screeched into reverse before heading off into the night.