Treasure of Eden

by Sherer, B. K. ; Linnea, Sharon

  But it was Safia’s eyes that shone. “It brought us horses,” she whispered. A smile crept across her face and she looked down, as if she’d shown more emotion than she ought.

  January 26, 2007, 5:25 p.m.

  (17 hours, 5 minutes until end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  Will I ever be rid of this smell of goat?

  Frank McMillan sat on a goat-hair mat, having waded through a sea of goats to enter this tent, and was now reaching into the community food pot to retrieve a helping of fresh goat boiled in goat yogurt.

  Yum. I can’t wait to see what’s for dessert!

  Well, at least their hands were probably clean. That was the tradition, wasn’t it? But not being willing to take any chances, Frank had brought medicine to make sure the food and drink did not make him sick.

  McMillan had driven his Jeep over many kilometers of dusty, desolate road to reach the Bedouin camp. Barren, rocky plateaus jutted up from the soil, and he wondered if the moon could be any less inviting.

  He was, however, warmly welcomed by the Hajj and his kin when he pulled into the camp. “Mr. Hans Myndhart” was invited to join the men for dinner, and promised a private meeting with their leader following the meal.

  These people think they live like kings… Compared to some other Bedouin tribes, maybe they do. The men around him seemed to be boasting, telling great fish tales about brave conquests and slick deals.

  McMillan could not understand most of what they were saying, but the man next to him, tall, with dark, curly hair flowing beneath a black and white kaffiyeh, was translating for him into passable English.

  What would be the fate of the tribe now that they were to sell the box? This seemed to be the main topic of discussion. One old man made a sign against the evil djinn. Another called the old man superstitious, claiming the income from the sale would help the tribe to fight off their enemies.

  “I have heard of this jeweled box that brings the tribe such good fortune.” Frank leaned toward the man who had been so helpful in translating for him. “As a jeweler, I am naturally curious. Do you suppose I can see it?”

  The man stared intently at him, turned his head slightly, and said, “Perhaps, if Allah smiles upon you.”

  Feeling a hand upon his shoulder, Frank looked up to find the Hajj standing above him, beckoning for him to follow. He stood and pushed his way between two colorful hanging rugs into a private meeting place. It looked to be the Hajj’s own sleep quarters. By Bedouin standards it was lavish, boasting a number of plush rugs, even a small dresser and a desk with chair.

  The Bedouin leader lowered himself to the floor and sat cross-legged on a thick blue mat. Frank sat down facing him.

  “Mr. Myndhart. You are the third jeweler to arrive and show me your wares. The others have produced some fantastic pieces. Yours will have to excel to be chosen.”

  Thinking of his visit with Erich Myndhart, Frank put on an air of great pride as he slowly removed the jewel box and opened it dramatically before al-Asim.

  “Imagine this around your lovely young bride’s neck…”

  Frank watched as a look of surprise and great longing passed across the other man’s face; then the look was quickly wiped away as the Bedouin attempted to affect a bored “been there, seen that” expression.

  “Well, it might be acceptable, but it will be hard for this trinket to surpass the others I have already seen.”

  McMillan was certain the man had wanted it, badly, and was now playing coy in order to bring the price down. Frank would have to play along and work the angles until he knew how to get his hands on the box.

  “Certainly this rare blue tanzanite could not be matched by any of my competitors?”

  “I will give your bauble all the consideration it is due and then let you know my decision by tomorrow. You are staying for the wedding, I hope?”

  Frank stood to leave as the Hajj, obviously finished with this audience, dismissed him with a wave of the hand.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  January 26, 2007, 7:14 p.m.

  (15 hours, 16 minutes until end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  Safia sat among the laughing, clapping women and tried to join in the song.

  “Who shall be the favored one today?” the lead singer asked. “Is it the skinny one?”

  “No, no! It is not the skinny one!” the other women laughed.

  The singer pulled a thin cousin of the bride to her feet. The girl blushed but sang, “No! I am not the favored one today!”

  “Is it the old one?” the song continued. The singer chose from the crowd a grandmother, then an ample woman to pose the question to before she came to the verse: “Who shall be the favored one today? Is it the little girl?”

  As she asked that question, she pulled Safia to her feet.

  Laughing and clapping, the women all cried, “No, no, it is not the little girl!”

  Safia knew she was supposed to sing, but every word burned as it crept out of her throat: “No! I am not the favored one today!”

  She hoped the others did not see her scowl as she sunk back to the ground. She was not a little girl!

  She had a new dress; she had even worn a kerchief. Why were they making fun of her?

  Everyone else seemed to have thrown care to the wind. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten the precarious position they were in–that all Israeli Bedouin were in. But Safia’s talks with Tarif had a sobering effect on her. All of this–their home, their way of life–could be about to change. The Hajj himself was willing to let things change, to sell the box. Why?

  Safia did not ask much of life. She wanted nothing more than for Tarif to be the next sheikh. He would be a fine leader; surely everyone could see it. He was from a good family, a family that had produced many leaders. He could trace his ancestors back to princes and holy men. He was not the oldest son, but then, neither was the Hajj.

  How could Tarif himself be challenging the old ways? He wanted to build a town of buildings that looked like flowing tents. Buildings that looked like tents. Fakes.

  Tarif wanted her to stay in school. What was he thinking? She didn’t need school to be first wife. The women who were allowed to demonstrate power were the ones with powerful husbands. And powerful men didn’t marry girls who bought into Western ideals–such as mixed classes of boy and girls–once the girls were of marriageable age.

  Now the women were clapping as the singer asked, “Who shall be the favored one today? Is it the fair one?”

  “Yes, yes!” the women replied. “It is the fair one!”

  The singer took the hands of the bride and brought her to her feet. Her hands were covered with intricate geometric designs, painstakingly painted on by the women who were closest relatives to the bride, as well as others who were known to be the best henna artists.

  The bride, Yasmin, stood up. She wasn’t smiling. She seemed like this was all her due, like she was barely willing to grace their clan by marrying their Hajj. She seemed like a haughty, spoiled girl. Everyone could see she was after the Hajj’s money, nothing else. Was the Hajj blind, foolish, or merely overcome by desire? The men were never supposed to be overcome by desire. It was not hasham.

  Somehow the other women were dancing and celebrating like they didn’t mind, like this was any ordinary wedding. So why was it bothering Safia so much? She couldn’t explain it to herself. Yes, this arrogant girl would soon be living with their clan, but she and Safia would seldom cross paths.

  And then the terrible, uncomfortable knowledge came: Safia was jealous. Not of this conceited girl marrying the ancient, overweight Hajj. But of this girl marrying the sheikh of the big tent, having such a huge bride-price, having a henna night and a wedding with days and days of feasting. What if all of this went away before Safia’s own wedding? She wanted it so badly. She wanted
to be “the fair one,” the one everyone crowded around, painted, sang to. She wanted it to be her.

  It had not yet been officially explained to her by the women about what happened in your husband’s tent during the wedding, with all the men present. Not officially explained, but she had certainly gotten the gist of it from the whispers of the girls. How three of your closest female relatives–married female relatives–brought you into the tent. You were supposed to act frightened and unwilling. Everyone was there except your bridegroom and his father. The bridegroom would be the last to enter. (His father would not come; it was thought to be too embarrassing for the bridegroom to have his father present.)

  Your bridegroom would come in, and the women who had come with you would hold you down. You were supposed to struggle and object, to show your father had raised you with modesty. Then your bridegroom came to you with the cloth of honor. He would come and put his hand up under your dress, up inside your female part. He would twist hard. If you had honor, there would be blood. The cloth would be shown to the men, then taken outside and shown to the women.

  Then the bride would be a wife, and the celebration would move on to a new level.

  The girls said it hurt when the groom did that. They said the good thing about becoming a second or third wife was that the groom would know what to do and where and how to do it. They said sometimes the young grooms were too frightened or too shy to do it right.

  The idea of anyone doing that to her, in front of all the men, was enough to make Safia queasy. Anyone but Tarif, that is. When she thought of Tarif doing it, she knew he would be noble and kind–and quick. She would not mind. She would be embarrassed, but she would also be proud. It would be something they had gone through together.

  What would the future bring? What would happen when it was her time to be married? She would do what she could to bring the best events to pass. But in the end, it was gismih o naseeb.

  Fate and destiny.

  It was in God’s hands.

  But wasn’t it God who had given her hands of her own?

  January 26, 2007, 8:14 p.m.

  (14 hours, 16 minutes until end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  It had been years since McMillan had worked as a mere CIA operative, but time had not dulled his senses, nor had he lost his touch at stealth. He had dared to venture into the Hajj’s private quarters, daring to search the man’s room even as he and his guests partied only ten feet away.

  There were very few places to hide anything, regardless of size, and nowhere big enough for the Eden box.

  I doubt it’s here.

  McMillan held a tiny penlight in his teeth to keep his hands free. He had always enjoyed searching through other people’s things, learning the dirty little secrets they thought were hidden from the rest of the world.

  Maybe that was why he never kept a girlfriend very long. Oh, not because they ever caught him snooping. He was too good for that! After one date with a woman he knew the contents of her diary and whether she carried a spare condom in her purse. And she was never the wiser.

  No, the problem was he so quickly learned everything there was to know about his conquests that he became bored. No spice. No surprises. So move on.

  But Richards…that woman was a challenge. Every time he thought he had her figured out, wham, something new. How the hell had she been equipped to drop a tail, as she had in Tallil? How had she known how to escape from handcuffs in an ancient brick tower that was three stories tall?

  I wonder what she’s doing right now? He imagined her topless, sponging off the crusted blood on her back, and cringing as the soapy water slid across the wounds. What a shame he wasn’t there to help her. He chuckled silently.

  Frank opened the top desk drawer, and his light fell upon two small folders that looked interesting. He picked up the first one so he could hold it close enough to the light to read the small print inside.

  It was an airline ticket. Omar al-Asim, destination, San Francisco.

  He thumbed through the ticket. No return flight.

  He reached down to pick up the second folder, also a ticket.

  Yasmin al-Asim. Again, San Francisco, one-way.

  This is no honeymoon trip.

  Interesting. The man planned to leave the tribe. Probably run off with the money from the box and start a new life. Did he really think he could leave them like that without consequences? There was no talk of this among the men, so they did not suspect. At least not yet.

  Frank scanned his penlight one more time across the room as he pondered the various advantages of keeping or revealing the Hajj’s plan. Nothing more to search, it was time to move on.

  For a brief moment Frank allowed the circle of his light to illuminate the Hajj’s bed. As he did, he noticed a movement in the back of the tent–a secret opening. He decided to leave that way, which should take him out to the privacy of the back of the tent. Perhaps this was the Hajj’s private way to leave and relieve himself in the middle of the night.

  Frank found the place where the flaps overlapped, and crouched down to step outside through them. As he stood up in the chilly night air, he found that someone else was standing there in the dark.

  Frank flicked his penlight up, illuminating the livid form of the Hajj. The portly man had obviously been standing there, quietly in the dark, for the length of Frank’s search.

  January 26, 2007, 8:14 p.m.

  (14 hours, 16 minutes until end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  Jaime’s primary task during the celebrations was to discover which women were more open to talking to her, an ajnebiya, an outsider–to whom she could go if she needed further information, or to follow up on something.

  Johanna and Alim had left shortly after the first feast. Unlike Operatives, they were expressly not to be on hand should something go wrong. Should the situation blow up, they needed to be apart from any controversy, removed from suspicion, so they could continue to operate in the region.

  Jaime had ridden over to the bride’s camp in the back of a white Toyota pickup, and that bumpy ride in itself had engendered tentative smiles shared with several of her cobumpees. Now, as the celebrating progressed, she was trying her best to join in the songs and celebration, but she was becoming increasingly distracted by the pain of her back. Her galabia was as loose as she’d dared wear, but the material still rubbed against her wounds when she moved.

  She finally worked her way to a back row of women, sitting along the tent walls. They were women who were too old to dance or needed to sit things out for one reason or another. Jaime gave a small smile and sat down to join those from the Hajj’s camp. She put her hand to her head to demonstrate she didn’t feel well–had a headache.

  The women nodded. She realized as she sat among them that these were the women who watched from the sidelines–who likely had a greater view of the whole picture than those in the midst of the dance. They had become momentarily quiet when she sat down, but after a few minutes one of them brought up the bride-price and they all began to chat again.

  Jaime wondered who all these women were–was one the Hajj’s mother? The bride’s great-grandmother? Jaime tried to memorize their faces as she sat, thinking she’d give her own kingdom for anything that would bring pain relief. Even though Yani was indeed here, in the middle of this assignment, he was with the men. He might as well be a thousand miles away.

  Jaime knew then that it had been a risk–a stupid risk–to come here without first getting medical attention. She didn’t know how she was going to stand the ride back to camp in the back of the pickup.

  She didn’t know how she was going to make it through the night.

  January 26, 2007, 8:22 p.m.

  (14 hours, 8 minutes until end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

/>   * * *

  “Hajj al-Asim, I’m afraid I have not been totally honest with you.”

  Frank McMillan knew the importance of taking control of the conversation and the situation. The sheikh had caught Frank searching his private quarters–a very serious offense. Frank had to talk fast, and talk convincingly. One call out from the Hajj, and Frank would be hopelessly outnumbered–gun or no gun.

  The face of the Bedouin leader darkened. “I have offered you the hospitality of my tent, and now you say you have robbed and deceived me?”

  “No, on my honor as a man, I have not stolen anything. Please forgive me. I misrepresented myself, but only in order to gain audience with you. No harm was intended. I am not a jeweler. I am an agent with the American CIA.”

  Frank showed his credentials to the perplexed Bedouin.

  “I want to make a bid on the box.”

  Hajj was no longer perplexed; he looked angry.

  “Then use the same means as all the other bidders. It gives you no right to trespass, no right to steal my privacy!”

  The fact that the Hajj didn’t immediately call for help led Frank to believe that something else was going on here–something the Hajj wasn’t willing to explain to the rest of his family, let alone the rest of the tribe.

  “I prefer face-to-face negotiations,” Frank said. “I can offer you more money than the highest bidder on eBay. And, one other thing they will not give you. An escape.”

  The Hajj’s answer was careful. Calculated. “I need no escape. I sell the box for the good of the tribe.”

  “We both know that’s not true. You plan to take off with the money and your new bride and never come back.”

  “How dare you!”

  “You needn’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone. I don’t care what you do to these people. In fact, I’ll even help you, in return for the box. I can offer you a new identity, which will enable you to hide from your tribe and the black-market dealers. And had you thought this through? You have airline tickets, perhaps, but do you have passports? Visas? Do you think a man such as yourself can just waltz into the United States without papers? And with an underage bride? Here again, I can help you in a way no one else will be able to.”