“I’m a doctor. I’ve seen worse.”
I liked her. Good looking, outstanding really. And calming. I needed that, although I didn’t understand why.
“You want cards on the table, Mr. Arnett, that’s fine. We’re wondering what happened with Lyle Floyd in Australia and some of the details of your—adventure.”
Just like that, I started boiling again.
“Read the autopsy report. I’m sure the Australians will oblige. He died; I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“What about this spider thing? Your scar—tattoo—looks like a spider web. What do you make of that? And that Australian anthropologist’s theory. Did you acquire some sort of power from that?”
“What is wrong with you people?”
My voice rose, and I noticed more people looking at us. Screw them.
“Are you a general or some part-time psychic looking for a cheap thrill.”
He blanched. Mrs. Brant put a hand on my arm.
“Look, general. I could use a drink badly, but the sheikh doesn’t serve alcohol. I don’t mix well, and I’d like to get the hell out of here. Can’t you just say what you have to say and let me go?”
I looked around for the sheikh but didn’t see him amid the growing crowd of gawkers.
Mrs. Brant intervened. “Dear, people are staring, and I think Mr. Arnett is not a patient man.”
“It’s the angry spirit in me,” I said.
This time they both looked like they had been slapped. In fact, I surprised myself. Where had that come from?
“Perhaps we could provide you with that cold drink,” Mrs. Brant said, sliding her hand down my arm.
“General, just tell me what you want. Otherwise I’m out of here.”
My impatience surprised me. Even in unpleasant company, I usually managed to mind my manners. The guy just wanted to talk, and this was obviously important to the sheikh. “Just one quick drink?”
He said it with a smile that I was certain had disarmed others before me. I don’t know why it made me angry, but I scowled.
He shook his head and one hand wiped his brow. He tried to clear his throat and gave a dry little cough. His face reddened and he looked to his wife in some distress.
“Whatever you’re doing, stop it.” His wife addressed me sharply. I shot her a look, and she, too, reached for her forehead.
I glared at the general, silently daring him to say just one more word. His arms closed in as if he intended to hug himself, and he swayed.
Not a word escaped his lips.
I had no idea what was going on, but I had an eerie feeling that somehow whatever was happening with the general involved me.
I turned abruptly and stalked away, trying to tamp down the sudden fury that had overtaken me. I thought happy thoughts of other men’s naked wives and ice-cold gin.
Behind me, guests gathered around the general and his wife, patting their backs and fanning them with their hands.
*
“I don’t know what to do with you,” the sheikh said.
He seemed concerned, not angry. We sat in the white living room of my villa; he was sipping mango juice, and I was slurping iced gin and tonic.
“I am truly sorry for what happened at the party,” I said. “I… I don’t know what else to say.”
“What are you going to do when you return to the United States? Are you planning to assault all of your countrymen, or just those who work for your government?” he asked.
His directness surprised me.
“I’m sorry. I will certainly write a note of apology tonight. You can arrange to have it delivered to General Brant tomorrow. I don’t know what more I can do.”
I should have stopped there, but I didn’t.
“I think you would have a hard time, however, making the case that I’ve assaulted anyone.”
“That’s the problem, Sebastian. You don’t have to do anything,” Sheikh Ibrahim said. “Your anger seems to reach out to people and harm them.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in anything save Allah and his prophet,” I said. “Now you’re throwing this Dyak voodoo at me?”
“I believe my eyes, Sebastian,” he said. “You were conversing with General Brant and his wife. She seemed to delight you. Then he said something and—believe me when I say this, Sebastian, I was not the only witness—the tattoo on your cheek grew darker and stood out on your face.”
I forgot about the tattoo. I always forget the tattoo except when I obsess about it.
The sheikh kept talking.
“You must realize that the general’s seizure, his wife’s too, they are associated with the tattoo. Causation. Coincidence. I don’t know, but they are related. The general is in serious condition. What does that say to you?”
I struggled with my temper.
“General Brant is just one more arrogant bastard too accustomed to having his own way. I’m not in the Army, and I don’t need to jump when he beckons me.
“People can believe anything they want,” I continued. “I assure you, I did not do anything to Brant or to Floyd. I’m surprised that an intelligent man like yourself could believe that I had.”
Where was this anger coming from?
“I am not your enemy, Sebastian. Neither is General Brant. Nor was the CIA officer who died,” he said.
“Yet you continue to accuse me of harming them. If I have that power—and it sounds too ridiculous to even say that out loud—why didn’t that old Dyak woman die? She is the one person on earth that I would still like to see dead. Why didn’t she die? I had a gun to her head, and I let her go. Does that make sense to you?”
I was shouting. At the sheikh.
“Look at yourself. In the mirror.” He rubbed his forehead like he had a migraine. “Please,” he gasped.
I stared into an ornate framed mirror hanging across the room, but I hardly recognized the face peering back at me. The entire right side of my face pulsed red and black. It was a scary sight, even for me. Especially for me.
Behind me the sheikh cleared his throat and took a sip of juice.
“Sebastian?”
I heard the voice calling from a distance.
“Sebastian.”
I shook myself.
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
The anger was gone; I felt confused, then embarrassed.
“Do you know what just happened?” the sheikh asked.
“Uh, yes. No. I can’t… it was like a fog. What did happen?”
“You attacked me.”
“I wouldn’t…”
“Not physically. But something… from you started to squeeze me, to cut off my breath. And I couldn’t look away from your face, but it wasn’t your face. It was something different. You, but not you.
“As soon as you turned away, the feeling passed,” he said, still rubbing his temples.
“I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I obviously meant no harm.”
“I don’t believe you did,” he said, “but harm came anyway.”
“Sheikh Ibrahim, I think I should leave Abu Dhabi. I would be truly ungrateful if I just ran off. You want me to do something before I go. Tell me what it is. If I can do it, I will.”
“Thank you, Sebastian. I appreciate that difficult offer. But what I ask may help you, too.” He spoke softly, with sadness, it seemed to me.
“Go to the American embassy tomorrow. Talk to whomever will see you. Find out what they want. Do no damage,” he said. “That is all.”
People with money and power are all alike. They get their way, and the rest of us have to eat their… whatever.
“All right,” I said. “Yes. I’ll do it.”
The sheikh looked more uncomfortable than grateful. My image in the mirror still radiated a menace I couldn’t identify.
Empaya Iba Speaks
Little Sister,
You have performe
d your work so well.
Your chosen shaman sees now Iba’s power,
And soon he will believe in me.
The midnight blossom binds him to me.
Its fragrance incense,
Its color drawing him from the world
And unto me.
My new shaman grows
In his understanding of the power that awaits.
His mind I will shape.
His will I shall take.
Tell the Littles Ones, my Sister
We will return soon to the Mother Soil
Where he will serve me
And protect the Mother Soil and my people.
Chapter 15
Alert
PRE-ACTION ALERT ALL STATIONS
TOP SECRET
FROM: MAJ WALKER STURGEON, 348TH GENERAL SERVICES, CHIEF OF STAFF FOR LG MARKUS BRANT, COMMANDING
TO: 348TH GENERAL SERVICES, ALL HANDS
RE: ATTACK ON COMMANDING OFFICER
LG MARKUS BRANT ATTACKED AND WOUNDED WHILE ATTENDING DIPLOMATIC RECEPTION HOME OF SHEIKH IBRAHIM BIN ABDULLAH BIN RASHAD AL AIN, IN AL AIN, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES.
BRANT EVACUATED TO LANDSTUHL REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER, RAMSTEIN, GERMANY IN CRITICAL CONDITION WITH CRUSHED PHARNYX/LARNYX. PROGNOSIS UNKNOWN BUT CONSIDERED POOR.
MRS/DR CECILIA BRANT (AGENCY NO. 02202017) ATTACKED, INJURED, TREATED AND RELEASED, SYMPTOMS OF STRANGULATION.
CIRCUMSTANCES OF ATTACK UNCLEAR. WITNESSES REPORT NO CONTACT, NO WEAPONS. CHEMBIO ATTACK SUSPECTED, BUT UNCONFIRMED.
MOTIVE UNKNOWN BUT LIKELY RELATED TO GEN BRANT’S INTEREST IN MEETING US CITIZEN SEBASTIAN ARNETT, PASSPORT 774872778 (REF FILE Y0071-12-14284_R CMS) TO DISCUSS POTENTIAL COOPERATION WITH 348TH OPERATIONS. ARNETT AN EMPLOYEE OF SHEIKH NAMED ABOVE, CURRENTLY LIVING IN AL AIN, UAE, IN RESIDENCE PROVIDED BY SHEIKH.
NO RPT NO SUSPECT IN ATTACK, BUT GEN GRANT SEEN SPEAKING WITH ARNETT AT TIME OF ATTACK. ARNETT FLED SCENE AND RETURNED TO RESIDENCE WITHOUT RENDERING AID.
TEAM CHARLIE RPT TEAM CHARLIE ON STANDBY.
ENDIT
TOP SECRET NODIS
Chapter 16
Threat
Omar rode beside me in the back seat of the Mercedes on the 90-minute trip from Al Ain over to the American embassy in Abu Dhabi.
Neither of us spoke.
Grit your teeth and do it, man, I thought.Omar ordered the driver to pull up to an out of the way VIP gate at the embassy; I presented my passport. I was expected, and a marine guard waved the car toward a small parking area. Omar said he would wait.
As I stepped out of the car, a U.S. Marine officer about my age approached—a colonel or major, I couldn’t tell which. I can never remember whether brass or silver indicates the higher rank. This guy wore silver.
“Mr. Arnett, I’m Mike Owens,” he said to me. “The sheikh’s office told us you were on your way.”
“Who’s lined up to see me?” I asked. “I’d like to get this meeting over with.”
“That would be me, sir.”
I raised an eyebrow. From a three-star general to a major or lieutenant colonel, I had come down in the military’s estimation.“So, they send out a marine to charge the enemy head on?”
A pained smile crossed Owen’s lips.
“I don’t think it needs to be that way, but I guess we’ll see. Care for a cup of coffee?”
The marine led me away from the embassy proper toward a one-story building across the parking lot.
“The embassy’s back that way,” I said.
“Coffee’s better over here. It’s less formal, too.”
“Do they have tomato juice? I’m coffee’d out,” I said. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”“They’ve got everything a diner back home has.”
“Good,” I said. “That sounds very good.”
I kind of liked this guy. He was certainly better than Mr. Floyd or General Brant. We chatted like two normal human beings, not at all like predator and prey.
“When were you home last?” I said.
“It’s been more than six months.”
“When do you go home for good?”
“I’m on TDY R&R from Afghanistan. I’ll go back there for at least three more months.”
“What are you doing here? I mean, what’s your job?”
“Intelligence reports, primarily. Making sure we’re backed up before we draw down completely,” he said, holding the commissary door for me. A few customers lingered over white coffee mugs and their cell phones. We slid into a booth in the farthest corner.
A pretty, young waitress with coffee-colored skin and wearing a short, tight white uniform brought us some water, took our order—tomato juice for me and coffee for the marine. Owens and I watched her walk away.“How does she manage to get around in that getup? This is one of the more conservative emirates.”
“She covers up. Her brother drops her off and picks her up. They’re both Palestinian, like most of the low-skill labor here and throughout the region.”
“Are you an area expert?”
“No, sir. You just pick things up over time,” he said.
“I’ll bet you do,” I said. “Well, do I call you major or lieutenant colonel?”
“Colonel, but just call me Mike.”
“Okay, Mike, let’s get down to it. One, don’t call me sir. My name is Sebastian. And two, what is it that our government wants from me?”
The intensity of my second question surprised me.
The marine rubbed his throat just above the line of his white T-shirt and cleared his throat.
“Did I tell you I’ve got what we call ‘desert throat’ over here? Your, ah…” He coughed a dry little cough. “Your stare is something else.”
He sipped coffee, and I scanned the diner. No one paid us any attention. I turned back to him.
“Your throat hurts and you’re drinking hot coffee?” I said.
“I’m a marine,” he said. “No one ever accused us of being smart.”
“Touché. So, what do you want from me, colonel?”
He shrugged. Might as well get on with it, his body said.
“Do you think you’ve got some sort of power to kill people just by looking at them or thinking bad thoughts about them?”
There it was, all out in the open. The number of smart people who bought into… Never mind.
“Straight question,” I said. “My straight answer is no. We done?”
“You haven’t finished your juice,” the marine said. “You remind me of guys who get captured over here and manage to escape. They’re touchy, very touchy.”
“You know many of them?”
“I was one—for about 30 minutes. I get the reactions.”
“Sorry to hear that… but I’m not interested in sharing hostage stories. Do you have what you want? Or can I leave?”
I felt hemmed in, surrounded, and wanted to bolt for the door. These urges came over me so fast now. My body screamed, get out of here. But I sat, gripping the glass of blood-red juice in both hands.
“You can leave any time,” Owens said. “In fact, you may be the only person within a thousand miles of here who can do any damned thing he wants whenever he wants.”
He chuckled at his own joke. I was not amused.
“But aren’t you even a little curious about this… thing?
“Not really, no.”
“Sir, you are full of shit,” the marine said.
I felt my face go from warm to hot, and the military man grabbed his glass of water and gulped it. I swiveled to find the waitress and focused hard on her chest. Sex. Lust. Distraction. Fight down the urge. I battled with myself.
“Thank you, sir. I think.” The colonel coughed. “I think we’re both all right now. And I think you just answered my question.”
I turned back to Owens. He was red in the face and tears welled in his eyes. He rubbed his left temple.“That’s—” He coughed again. “That’s some kind of trick you’ve got.”
“So you say.”
�
�No, sir. That’s a fact. One dead that we know of. Three walking wounded. And you just happened to be in the neighborhood. We kill people in Afghanistan on less evidence than that.”
“You’re welcome to try, colonel.”
“Not me. I’ve got a family, a job I like most days of the week, and a reasonably bright future. I’ve told you what we want to know. You don’t want to talk about it, you’re free to leave.”
“Thanks for the juice,” I said.
I slipped out of the booth and headed toward the door. Behind me, the colonel spoke loud enough for the entire place to hear.
“Aw, come on. Get your ass back here. Please. Sir. Sebastian.”
I stopped. The tension that had built up in my shoulders since passing through the embassy gates eased. The waitress stared at me.
“Could I have another juice, Miss?”
She nodded, and I returned to the booth and plopped down, as exhausted and whipped as if I’d gone three rounds with a professional boxer.
The colonel broke the silence.
“So, they tortured you?”
I looked up.
“No.… Yes.… I don’t know,” I said. “They put this tattoo on my face the old-fashioned way, pounding sharpened bamboo into my cheek, over and over. But I don’t remember it, just the aftermath. The infection, the pain. But I don’t think they did anything else. Not torture per se. They didn’t even tie me up.”
He nodded.
“From what I can figure out, they tried to take care of me. Put some kind of green shit on my face. Maybe it helped. At least it kept the bugs away.”
I paused, remembering.
“The last couple days—I guess it was two, maybe three, four, who knows?—they left water and food for me. I think it was probably the same stuff they ate.”
My eyes focused on the colonel.
“I can’t figure it out. They killed three people I was with, but not me.… They decapitated my friends. It didn’t register at the time, but somehow I know now that their necks looked like they’d been chopped at, not a clean cut. What if they were alive at the time?”
I shook the thought from my head.
The Mark of the Spider: A Black Orchid Chronicle Page 10
