Treasure of Eden

by Sherer, B. K. ; Linnea, Sharon

  Yani began to kick at the wood, just where there was no earth behind it, where the voice in the tunnel had come from.

  And finally, just as Jaime was having trouble finding the oxygen she needed to continue breathing shallow breaths, there was a cracking sound.

  And another.

  And then there was air.

  January 27, 2007, 1:48 p.m.

  (3 hours, 18 minutes since end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  The four horses–the stallion ridden by Jaime and Yani; Safia’s horse, Pasha; Tarif’s horse; and the Hajj’s own mount–stood huddled together at the entrance to the ravine.

  Their first reaction to finding the horses was great relief–and the second, fast on its heels, was the realization that the Hajj had ridden out when they had and they had no idea where he was.

  “He was standing below the cave, in the ravine. I saw him,” Safia said soberly.

  She and Tarif had already told them about the man in the helicopter who had taken the box and tried to kill Safia.

  The four of them stood for a moment, wondering if there were two corpses awaiting them in the ravine below the cave.

  “Let me go look around,” said Yani. “Please hold the horses. I do want us to take the box and be well away from here by the time authorities come looking for Frank’s body. But…let me take a look.” Yani threw his satchel over his shoulder and climbed over the boulders blocking the entrance to the gully before them.

  Neither Safia nor Tarif needed a reason to stay behind. It was clear they had no interest in seeing what had become of either man.

  Once Jaime was certain the cousins would wait for them, she climbed over to follow Yani.

  The corpses of the two men were fairly close together.

  Yani moved past Frank, whose body was facedown, to the Hajj, and knelt down beside him. He felt for a pulse at the Hajj’s neck, and then said a short prayer. As he carefully lifted the Hajj’s head to slide his goatskin rucksack over his neck, Jaime yelled Yani’s name.

  He hadn’t seen that Frank McMillan wasn’t dead. Or that Frank McMillan had used the last of his energy to raise his head and his Beretta and aim it squarely at Yani’s head.

  January 27, 2007, 1:55 p.m.

  (3 hours, 25 minutes since end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  Frank McMillan watched quietly as the man in Bedouin clothing climbed through the pass, over the boulders. Frank knew his own legs were broken, his lungs weren’t working right, and blood loss had made him slightly dizzy. But he was not done. No, not yet.

  The game was not over yet.

  During the last half an hour, he had slowly, painfully, crawled to reach his Beretta, which had fallen to the earth near him. Then, after rolling to his stomach, Frank lay prone, and waited. He had his right forearm cupped in his left hand to steady the pistol.

  Waiting. Patiently waiting.

  He knew someone would come, eventually. And that someone would likely have something to do with the cave, the box. Eden.

  And then the tall man came. Frank had seen him at the wedding. If he was here, in the middle of the wilderness, it was for a reason.

  Would he be willing to talk?

  Or should Frank just shoot him? If he couldn’t have the box, he couldn’t discover whatever the hell Eden was.

  He began to squeeze the trigger.

  “No!” came a woman’s scream, and then someone was on top of him, the gun still in his hand, but now both gun and hand were flattened on the ground.

  For one brief moment, he was so shocked that he forgot his pain.

  It was Richards. Jaime Lynn Richards. How she had gotten here he couldn’t begin to guess. From Lac-Argent to the Judean wilderness was quite a leap. And she had feigned ignorance of the box. The mere fact that she was here proved that he had been right–she was involved! Score that point for Frank!

  It was time to end the game. Frank could feel his life flowing out of him, but his need to vanquish this woman was enough to carry him through his last breath.

  “Richards!” he said. “I’m dying. I know I’m dying. Please, help me turn over.” He released his hand around the gun.

  And Richards was dumb enough to do it.

  As she did, he took the knife that he’d brought down with him–the boy’s shabriya–and brought it up to her neck. And then he whispered, “I want you to look me in the eye when I kill you. I want to see your face as you take your last breath.”

  To his surprise, Jaime looked steady, calm, and completely unafraid. McMillan saw immediately that he would not defeat her by killing her. But it would sure as hell tie up some loose ends, and cheer him considerably.

  “Frank. If you kill me, you never find out what you want to know,” she said. “You never find out about Eden.”

  A wave of pain shot through him and he had to scream. As he did, Richards kneed him in the stomach, which caused his entire insides to revolt. As he screamed again, she wrested the knife from his hand and threw it far away, beyond his reach.

  “Ahmet,” she said to the other man, “do you have your bag?”

  The Bedouin man went to get it. Frank knew then his time was up–her accomplice was undoubtedly going to get his own weapon, to finish Frank off. It didn’t matter. Dying like this was not for sissies. The pain was ravaging him, and he gasped and gasped again.

  Her accomplice had returned and handed her something. Frank couldn’t see what kind of weapon it was.

  She carefully unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and pressed something against the muscle in front of his shoulder. Within moments, the pain began to subside. The damn bitch had given him something for the pain.

  “Don’t you know who I am?” he asked. “Do you know what I’ve done to you?”

  “I know,” she said. “You ambushed me four years ago in Iraq. You helped Gerik kill my friend and you stole what you thought was the Sword of Eden. A day and a half ago, in France, you killed a man, and nearly killed another, and you whipped me. Then you came here and almost murdered a child. You did all of it to get information about a place you’ll never go. Even if you got there, there would be nothing of interest to you. The people of Eden would exasperate you. They have nothing for you to conquer. But now, you’re dying, Frank. For most people at this stage, I would ask if they wanted me to pray with them.”

  “If there are ‘people of Eden,’ then there is Eden,” he said. “You’ve just admitted it does exist!” There was an element of gloating in his voice, as if he were torturing her still and she had finally cracked. “It does exist,” he exulted.

  She looked sadly into his eyes and said, “Frank. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over.”

  “It’s never over,” he whispered. And then he was gone.

  January 27, 2007, 3:05 p.m.

  (4 hours, 35 minutes since end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  Abihu el-Musaq sat in the corner of the big tent watching the agitated men mill about. It hadn’t taken them long to realize the truck they were following, with the men who had shot the guns inside, had been “borrowed” from one of the wedding guests. Or that it had been parked fifteen miles away, by a highway, empty. The men were Bedouin, trackers, and they quickly figured out that the men had had three other vehicles waiting there to take them in three different directions, into three different towns.

  They hadn’t known what to do. They had come back to rendezvous and get instructions from the Hajj, since it was his bride who had been stolen.

  But the Hajj was nowhere to be found. Oddly, his oldest son, who was usually a firebrand, was preaching caution. So they milled, and ate, and swore, and paid no attention to the wedding guest who sat silently in the big tent, watching all of this.

  Until a man walked with quiet p
urpose into the tent and headed straight for el-Musaq. “I need to speak with you outside,” the man said.

  El-Musaq pointed to himself doubtfully, as if there had been some mistake. But the man didn’t engage with the pretense. He unobtrusively exited the tent and waited for el-Musaq to follow.

  When he did, the squat man found Ahmet, the much taller cousin of the Hajj, outside waiting for him.

  “Let’s settle this quickly,” Ahmet said. “I have the box. What have you done with the bride?”

  “Everyone claims to have the box, but I have never seen it,” answered el-Musaq.

  The tall man removed it from his bag. It was as beautiful as the photos, as beautiful as el-Musaq had hoped.

  “Where is the bride?”

  “Give me the box.”

  This time, Ahmet handed it over to him. And then Ahmet said, quite clearly, in English, “We know the sale price, el-Musaq. We know where you live on Cyprus. Your dealings with us must be honorable if you wish to continue in business.”

  The next moment, he was back speaking local-dialect Arabic. “Now that we have an understanding, where is she?”

  January 27, 2007, 3:05 p.m.

  (4 hours, 35 minutes since end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  Of all the things that could have happened on this, her wedding day, being kidnapped was not something Yasmin had foreseen.

  Once the shooting had stopped, the burqa-clad older woman had pulled Yasim out of the big tent and had guided her into the honeymoon tent.

  Once there, Yasmin had stood, wondering what she should do. The woman’s protective arms let her loose, and Yasmin started toward the tent flap to see what was happening. The woman pulled her back into the safety of the tent.

  The woman had removed Yasmin’s burqa–then she had gone behind her and used both hands to put a wide tape over her mouth. As Yasmin began to struggle, the woman had grabbed one of her hands and put it through a loop of rope. Yasmin cried out behind the tape, and tried to loose herself with her other hand, but the woman hit her, hard, and she fell to the ground. The woman grabbed Yasmin’s other hand and pulled the ropes tight.

  The woman bound Yasmin’s feet, put another length of tape across her mouth, and replaced her burqa and her wedding shawl.

  Then the woman dragged Yasmin across the tent, threw a dark rug over her, so that no one would even see she was in the tent if they looked.

  There were more gunshots, and the engine of a car or truck roared to life.

  The still-veiled woman looked at Yasmin just before she pulled the rug over her head. She made a sign for silence with her hand. Then she made the motion of a knife slitting a throat.

  Then the rug went over Yasmin’s head, and the world was dark.

  Yasmin didn’t cry. Even after the hours went by, and her arms and legs ached from lack of circulation, and she desperately wanted a drink. Her mouth was so dry.

  At some point, her eyes adjusted a little, enough for her to notice the few things that were under the rug with her. The largest one was a piece of jewelry. It seemed to be a necklace. And it was lying on a small card that seemed to have her own name written in the Hajj’s hand.

  That surprised her. It had been a long time since someone had gotten her something nice.

  It seemed a long, long time–it seemed forever, before she heard the tent flap open. She tried to kick and move, and it must have worked somewhat, for a woman and a girl who’d entered the tent came back and found her.

  They were of the Hajj’s tribe. A pleasant-looking woman and her young daughter, called Safia.

  “You’re here,” said the mother. “Allah be praised!

  “No one touched you, did they, child? Other than the woman, that evil woman who did this to you?” Safia’s mother pulled the tape from Yasmin’s mouth in one yank. The pain took a moment to wash over her, and it took a minute before she felt she could speak.

  “No,” Yasmin agreed, “praise God, no one has touched me.”

  “We are so sorry this has happened to you, in the protection of our family. Please accept our apologies!” the woman said.

  “I would like some water,” rasped Yasmin. “Please, some water.”

  The little girl, Safia, brought her a jug and a cup from across the tent.

  “Yasmin,” the woman continued. “The men are all meeting in the big tent. There is some very sad news, I’m afraid.”

  “What is it?”

  “The man who masterminded your kidnapping did it because the Hajj owed him a debt. The good news is, the debt has now been paid. The bad news is…child, there is no happy way to tell you this. Your husband is dead.”

  “The Hajj? Oh! I am sorry. I did not know him well, but he was kind to me,” Yasmin replied. And her voice sounded like that of a young child.

  Yasmin saw the world once again crumble around her, as she had secretly known it would. “Must I then go home?”

  By tribal custom, each of the Hajj’s surviving wives would become the responsibility of that wife’s eldest son. And Yasmin, since she had no child, would return to the tent of her stepfather.

  The woman and the girl looked surprised at Yasmin’s question, and she realized she had spoken rashly. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to impose,” Yasmin said, and she began to cry. “But if there is any chance–” She went across the tent to the rug she had been hidden under. She picked up the beautifully crafted tanzanite necklace that had been left there for her by the Hajj.

  “I would gladly give this to help pay my way,” she said.

  The mother and daughter looked at each other.

  Yasmin could see them thinking, the thoughts in their minds running fast. She knew she had taken another chance, admitting to these strangers that there was a reason she did not want to go back.

  The mother put a hand on Yasmin’s arm. “Let me see what I can do. Safia, run and get Farina; tell her I have women’s business to discuss with her. Go quickly, Daughter, so that things may be in place before the men’s meeting ends and Yasmin becomes the focus of attention.”

  “I will,” the girl said, and as she left the tent she heard her mother say, “Yasmin, you are the bride, and the necklace was a gift to you from your bridegroom. Tuck it away. It may be you will have need of it some time, but not today. Times have been hard for you, child; the day has been hard. But let me see if things can be made better.”

  January 27, 2007, 3:42 p.m.

  (5 hours, 12 minutes since end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  Jaime found the young girl Safia at the horse corral. Safia hid herself at first, but when she saw who the newcomer was, she came forward.

  “Do you know what is happening in the big tent?” the girl asked.

  “Not exactly. But Ahmet is there. And Tarif. I’m sure they will guide the others to make wise decisions.”

  The girl stood by the fence, and her Arabian, Pasha, came over to nuzzle her.

  “I hear the bride has been invited to stay here.”

  “Yes,” Safia said, scuffing the ground with her toe. “Farina, the wife of the Hajj’s second son, has offered her the hospitality of their tent. She and her husband are both kind. They will see her well married, should the time come again.”

  “Safia,” said Jaime, coming to stand next to her. “You understand that what happened here today–what happened to Yasmin–was not your fault?”

  “But I took the box,” the girl whispered.

  “You hid it for good purpose,” Jaime said in Arabic. “The others who sought it–their reasons were not so noble.” Safia looked up at her, and Jaime said, “No one will ever know where it was or how you got it back. In fact, Ahmet has told me that he knows who bought the box, who won the auction. He thinks it is very possible that both the money paid for the box and the box itself will be returned to your tribe. So you see, it contin
ues to bring good fortune.”

  “It was kind of Ahmet to give Tarif the second box from the cave, the one covered with gold,” Safia said softly. “I know what Tarif wants to do with it.” She sighed. “He is probably trying to persuade the men even now. He will want to sell it, to buy land and…and design a town…a town where the buildings look like flowing tents–”

  “I believe Tarif will be a great leader one day,” Jaime said to Safia, and for some reason Safia blushed deep red. “And I believe you will be a great leader one day also.”

  Pasha pushed at the girl’s shoulder, still not satisfied that she had no treat for him. “What will become of us?” Safia said sadly. “Will we lose all of this? Will Pasha one day be gone, and the wide-open spaces? Is this the end?”

  Jaime looked over the fine, strong horses, including the stallion that had served Yani and her so well earlier in the day.

  “I don’t know what will happen,” Jaime finally answered. “I know that Tarif and Ahmet are giving wise counsel. It seems as though the Hajj’s second son will have a large say, and he is a wise and kind man.”

  Jaime wished she could have given Safia a more definitive answer about the future. Instead, she put her arm around the girl’s shoulder and said, “Always remember your courage this day, Safia, and remind Tarif of his courage. I know Ahmet has spoken to him, to help Tarif know that his life is not defined by the fact he killed a man. It is defined by his true heart, and by the bravery he showed.”

  Safia looked at Jaime then, and said seriously, “Must I continue to go to school?”

  “I know it’s a hard choice. But it seems to me the men who lead your tribe in the future will need to be educated to deal with the outside world. And it would be good to have women who will be educated as well, who can help bring a good future.”

  Safia nodded sadly. “I may have to stay in school.” She jumped down, startling her horse, and kicked the ground. “But I don’t want to grow up! I don’t want to be a woman, who does nothing but sit at home. Life is far too exciting for that!”