by Harte, Roxy
Chapter Fifteen
Thomas
Three hours north of the capital city of Khartoum, Sudan
It was a last-minute decision to bring Nikos with me, and having him at my side as we look out over the semiarid land sprinkled lightly with scrub and few trees, I am glad. Pepé and his men have already been here for two days, claiming Charles François’ abandoned base camp as their own. It is deserted except for a few nomadic families.
In the distance I recognize Lattie’s sister and brother-in-law, Badriya and Isaam. After a long moment Isaam recognizes me and rushes to my side. His wife follows, but stays behind him. She is heavily veiled in the bright, colorful cloth that is typical of the Rashaida nomadic tribes of northeastern Sudan.
Isaam speaks in rapid Arabic. “Soldiers took the children.”
“I know. I know,” I assure him, patting him on the back. It is obvious he has been beside himself with grief. I imagine Lattie left the children in his charge for the day it would take for her to travel to the city and back again. “They are safe in the United States with friends of mine. Have you heard anything about Lubna?” I defer to Latisha’s desert name, because although Isaam has heard me call my wife Lattie before, Badriya has not.
Badriya’s eyes go wide and fill with tears as Isaam shakes his head. I suspect he expects the worst has already happened and if she is not already dead, she is praying for it to come swiftly. “We only heard the report that Charles is dead. His men left almost immediately.”
“Hektor said that other men came, that they were looking for something.”
Badriya averts her eyes and I know the next words out of Isaam’s mouth are going to be a lie. “Only the soldiers who came for the children. You said they are safe now.”
I leave the couple and walk with my brother. “Did he know what they were looking for?” Nikos asks.
I realize dumbly that although all of my questions were asked in English, Isaam had responded in Arabic. “No. Whatever they want is still a mystery.”
The sun is setting, a brilliant orange band cutting the violet sky in half and setting the normally dull-gray landscape ablaze with color. For just a moment there are bits of green and yellow and purple, which seem to be nonexistent during the heat of the day.
Young boys lead camels in closer to the camp for the night. The scent of camels’ dung hangs heavily in the air and the animals’ muskiness is overwhelming. I am glad the winds pick up as the sun sets and I inhale a deep breath of fresh air carried from far away. After a few days’ time I would become accustomed to the smell, but I hope not to be here that long.
“How could you leave your children here?”
I turn to see what my brother is looking at. His gaze rests on a young mother, heavily draped, sitting near a small fire cooking, two small daughters crowded against her. She rotates a large kettle with two smaller pots over the fire and stirs the smaller pot with a knife. In the background the sides of the tent flap in the harsh wind. Both mother and children hold their scarves close to their faces, protection from the blowing sand, but also to prevent any accidental exposure of their features.
I don’t like the judgment I hear in his voice. “How is this different than how we were raised? They raise camels and goats. We raised horses and sheep.”
“We had a real roof over our heads.”
“Yes, tile, to protect us from the elements. It almost never rains here. All they need is a tent to protect them from the sun and sand.”
“And their education? The women are kept completely illiterate and the men fare only slightly better.”
“François had a tutor brought here from France. Honestly, most of the time, they were in Dubai. They lived like princes and princesses. When they are here, with Lattie’s relatives, it is so they can have the best of both cultures. And we agreed that at age eight they would be sent to boarding school, either in England or in France.”
He shakes his head. “I would have thought that our experience would have turned you off boarding schools. If I ever have a child I would shelter it from that world.”
I used to think the same thing. When did my point of view change?
“Boarding school teaches structure, self-reliance.”
He shrugs. “They’re your children.”
“What does that mean?”
“You deserted them to the infidels. Tell me you haven’t sold their souls to the agency yet.”
“You’re right. I deserve your judgment and someday I may face God’s judgment, but if I deserted my children here it was because I have no intention of my children carrying on the family tradition.” I don’t mention that Glorianna has already campaigned for my unborn twins or how I plan to keep her plans from materializing.
“If we get your woman out of this mess alive, promise me you won’t allow her to bring the children back here. Raise them in the US or Europe, or even Greece, but please, safeguard them from this life.”
“The people here have a different life. It is not a matter of being better or worse.”
“Promise me, Ari, or I will leave now and never look back.”
The vehemence in his voice makes me believe him. “I want my children to know and respect their mother’s customs, but I will be raising them. I won’t leave it up for debate. If Lattie wants to stay in this desert pursuing her own agenda, she can, but she can’t protect my children here, and although I don’t see the horror you obviously see in my children having a simpler life, I do want them to have a modern life with all the conveniences and opportunities for education they would miss out on by being forced to return here.”
In my mind I can hear their squeals of delight over their breakfast cereal.
I have missed school, Papa.
I wonder now if I lied to my brother. Did Charles have a tutor brought over from France? Have they been living in Bahri? All I have is Lattie’s assurances. God, I don’t want to be angry with her but I am. More, I’m angry at myself for trusting her. Again. I don’t want to believe she was a woman who would lie to me at every chance to get her way.
Once…a long time ago…she seemed so sweet, so innocent.
When I brought her to the United States, I never considered keeping her for myself, I never dreamed she might fall in love with me, but faced with her jealousy, I reasoned she must have. Obviously we were both so much younger, her barely more than a child. Seventeen. She knew little English but she knew enough to demand “Where you go?”
She asked every morning when I’d return to our home, our bed, and I was always too tired to make love to her. I was training Garrett then, teaching him everything I knew about being a Dominant. He was wearing me out physically and emotionally. I’d never been in love with a man and didn’t recognize what was happening between us as falling in love. I’d tell her “Work.”
It wasn’t all truth, it wasn’t all lie.
One morning she pointed at bruises around my neck. “Not working. You tell me truth now.”
That night I took her with me to a BDSM club and she was left stunned. I worried about her silence during the drive home. I filled the void, talking nonstop, telling her about Garrett’s plans to create Lewd Larry’s. I explained, “It isn’t real torture. It’s fun, play.”
She’d looked at me incredulously.
“Can I show you?”
I’d pulled her waist-length hair up, catching it in an elastic ponytail holder, making the frizzy mass a loose bun. She was trembling, worried. I undressed her slowly, helping her step out of her shoes and then unzipping the back of the summer dress she was wearing. Naked, she stood proudly and magnificently before me. She lifted her chin and despite her youth I’d never seen such a strong woman.
I caressed her cheek, then kissed her gently.
“No!” she cried out. “I want you to do to me what the ones at that club did.”
I’d slapped her, hard enough that my hand was left stinging. I pushed her against a wall, lifting her up by her throat, cutting off her air. Her legs
wrapped around my waist, instinctively trying to fight and save herself. I kept the pressure tight but gave her enough air to keep her from passing out. I’d wanted her to remember. I’d wanted her to enjoy the game we were playing. Mostly I’d wanted her to understand the need, the addiction of rough play. Then I didn’t yet see it as a lifestyle.
I’d filled her, thrusting hard into her with her trapped between me and the unyielding wall. I tightened my grip on her throat, not allowing her to breathe as I thrust hard into her and knew the moment her orgasm exploded through her.
I let her take in long gulps of air but held her still against the wall. I thrust into her at a slower pace, building my own pleasure, not knowing if she would hate me from that moment on or if she could start to understand.
Catching my face between her palms, she’d admitted, “I thought I was going to die.”
“I wouldn’t let you die.”
She’d kissed me, asking against my mouth, “Next time will you lash me?”
I’m still chuckling at the memory when Nikos finds me sitting under the stars far from camp. Silently he sits beside me and gazes up at the splendor that is the desert night sky. So many stars, seeming so close, almost touchable, make me wish for simpler days. It bothers me that he sees only infidels and not the lovely, gentle people my wife’s family represented. To the north, south, east and west, wars and skirmishes—either religion- or power-based—rage on and somehow the nomads avoid the worst of it.
“How did you meet her?”
“I was sent for her father, renowned anthropologist, philanthropist and premier arms dealer. I was captured and awaiting execution when she released me with my promise to help her get to America. It wasn’t supposed to be complicated.”
“Meaning you weren’t supposed to fall in love with her.”
I nod in the dark.
“In the States, did you raise your children Orthodox or were they brought up Muslim?”
I don’t want to fight with him. Not here, not now, not while I am already dragging myself through the coals, second-guessing every decision I’ve made over the last decade. I wonder if he’s even been inside a church since joining the agency. “When Lattie left this desert she turned her back on her heritage, on her faith. She embraced all the United States had to offer. And I raised my children in the church with her at my side.”
I expect more questions, arguments. I don’t expect him to admit, “I think I’m in love.”
I glance over at his silhouette, realizing that although his head is tilted back, he isn’t gazing at the stars at all. His eyes are closed. Since I found him in her quarters at Lewd Larry’s, I jump to the conclusion he’s speaking of Morgana. I rub the back of my neck, considering all the complications that could come from his admission. Garrett is going to kill me. I chuckle under my breath. “Lust.”
He turns his gaze to me and although it is dark, I can see clean through to his soul when he says, “I’ve never dreamed of more, never even considered I might ever have the chance at a life other than what I’ve known. I know what I am, I know what I’m not, but when I’m in her arms I start to believe I might be more.”
I know that feeling. The papers I left with Sophia were as legal as any piece of paper can be. “I want Sophia to be my wife. I want her to be my children’s mother. ”
“Sophia?”
“Celia. I showed you her picture once.”
“You neglected to share that she is Lewd Larry’s Kitten though. You really do enjoy the complicated life.”
“No, I don’t. I want simple.” I realize as I say it that it is all I really want. I will marry Sophia when I return and our life will become more simple—with or without Garrett, though I am not certain how she will feel about that, and we will raise all of our children together.
This decision doesn’t take away from my love for Lattie. I will find her, I will deliver her to safety, but I won’t be living with her as my wife ever again. We were never legally married so a divorce won’t be required.
We share a heavy sigh and go back to gazing at stars we don’t see while we think of the women we’d rather be with.
We spend the night together on the sand and share a sunrise. With each passing second, we both become more focused. Intent. Nothing happens in this land without everyone knowing it, and my enemies could be massing just out of sight. We have to keep moving and agree to head into the large, modern city of Khartoum.
There, traffic is congested and the heat is unbearable. The entire team is on edge. We’re being open, obvious, stirring the shit with a big stick and generally painting a big target on ourselves in the hopes of flushing out Lattie’s captors.
No one is talking about what happened. It’s a sad day when bribes can’t even buy information. One thing is obvious. Fear. It’s permeated the very culture.
Of course there have been newspaper reports and some radio broadcasts covering the assassination of a prominent archaeologist, but I could have stayed in the United States and known more about what is going on here than actually being here.
Meeting up with Pepé about midday, we catch a break. “The BBC reported Charbonneau sent a colleague photographs and documentation on his latest discovery the night before his assassination. They believe there may be a connection.”
I’m skeptical. “What was it?”
“A scroll.”
“A scroll?”
“It could prove to be the most important find since the Dead Sea scrolls. It might have actually been written,” he whispers the last part, “by Christ.”
Beside me, Nikos snorts and quickly covers his nose with a cloth handkerchief and pretends to sneeze.
Pepé excitedly tells us, “No one is talking because to do so would be blasphemy.”
“Where is the scroll now?” I ask.
Pepé shrugs. “No one knows. Like your wife, it has vanished.”
“Someone knows where she is and who has her,” Nikos says gruffly. Sweat drips down his cheek and he swipes it away with the handkerchief. He’s not overly impressed that we didn’t come in guns blazing, and he is hot and uncomfortable in the white dishdasha and turban he wears to cover his tattoos. Dressed as a businessman in suit and tie, I am no more comfortable but am the less grumpy of the two of us.
If the scroll is what the kidnappers seek, they are correct in believing Lattie will know its whereabouts. She won’t tell them.
Nikos stands and paces while the rest of us drink tea. It seems to him we are doing a lot of sitting around, getting absolutely nowhere, and as I sip my fourth cup of tea I can see his point. I have to believe patience will pay off. My only comfort is that everything happens slowly and methodically here—even torture—and though it is a sickening thought, I don’t believe I have to fear her imminent death. We still have time to find her alive.
That’s still my plan a week later.
It isn’t so unusual to awake to gunfire, but on our twelfth morning starting with zero leads, a quick glance through the upper window of the hotel I’m staying in reveals an American security detail shooting rounds into the air to announce their arrival. “Great.”
From behind me Nikos asks, “What is it?”
“The cavalry is here.” I take the stairs two at a time, Nikos trailing close, and run through the lobby. The last thing I want is innocents injured because of some hero’s idea of how to flush me out. Nikos and the rest of the team stay in the shadows, guns trained on the Humvee caravan, while I step into the brilliant sunlight with my hands on top of my head. “Looking for me?”
One of the soldiers steps from the Humvee, machine gun pointed up. We walk toward each other. “Are there others inside that are of Guardian interest?” His accent is thick Russian.
“Only one,” I answer, jerking my chin. Only Nikos reveals himself, hands already clasped behind his neck to show he is no threat. He walks slowly to my side.
“We don’t have all day. Get in.”
Nikos and I climb into a rear seat, the Russian ge
ts into the front passenger seat and the vehicle is moving before we’re fully seated. Another agent already seated in the back runs a scanner over the back of my neck, easily locating the identification chip embedded just under my skin. He speaks into a collar-mounted receiver. “Agent XKM-one-zero-one confirmed.”
He scans the back of Nikos’ neck and says into the receiver, “We have a problem.”
Nikos and I lock gazes. He admits, “I have trust issues,” but if he was implanted with a chip I was unaware of it.
“When?” I ask him in Greek.
“While you were making nice with the senator and I was asked to wait in the hall. It happened before I knew what was going on. It could have as easily been a bullet through my brain.”
I doubt that.
“No one asked permission to track me like a hound. I took it out.”
I shake my head, sighing heavily. My brother.
“I am the only child of parents who weighed, measured, and priced everything; for whom what could not be weighed, measured, and priced, had no existence.”
Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit
Chapter Sixteen
Garrett
I awake to screams and realize immediately I’m alone in the bed. Heart racing, I hurry down the hall through the living room and into the kitchen where I find Olympia and Nikkos sitting at the bar happily eating cereal and Kitten and Athena-Sophia both sitting on the floor crying. Actually, Athena-Sophia is screaming bloody murder and Kitten is crying silently. Both have tears dripping down their cheeks.
It is obvious what has happened—a bowl of cereal and milk hurled across the room, Kitten on hands and knees, trying to wipe up the mess, and Hektor, squatted, trying to console his sister with a bottle. But as the chubby toddler bats the bottle away for the third time, it is obvious she isn’t having anything to do with it…or anything else when her brother holds out his arms to her and she hits at him too.
“Hey, hey. None of that.” I scoop up the baby.
“Ommy, Ommy, Ommy,” she wails.
“She is crying for our mother,” Hektor explains.
