Much of what she was seeing today was familiar from her childhood—minus the high-tech soldiers and rap music. Her father had spent a good many summers here compiling his research. To her, these bazaars had been a magical place, the land of Aladdin come alive, a thousand colors and sights and sounds and smells. The danger had been little then, and she’d often gone about on her own, striking cunning deals with the merchants for small trinkets and pieces of juicy fruit, fighting imaginary pirates and swooning over imaginary princes under the golden-red sunset.
She now looked for the bigger picture, past the nearby rooftops. In the distance she could make out the towers of the minarets, next to the saw-toothed edges of old crusader castles. Above, the sky was an incredible, pure blue, ancient as the Bible, fresh as the pomegranates overflowing from the baskets of the women riding the bus with them. It was a local bus, half-filled with women traveling to the bazaar, as well as some schoolchildren and a few civil servant types in old, threadbare suits, matched with head coverings. It was late afternoon by now, the end of the midday siesta, a habit adopted from the brief period of Spanish rule here, prior to that of the French and then the British.
The smells were themselves a complicated feast, as varied as the styles and ethnic origin of the people in the streets. The odor of goats and camels was a piquant overlay to the delicious piquancy of curry-like spices and the warm, deep undercurrent of the various pita breads, cooked meats and rich espressos from the cafes.
Minarra didn’t realize until now just how hungry she was. She’d stubbornly refused food on the airplane, and again at the airport. It was Mac’s fault, for acting so pompously, lecturing her about needing to keep her strength up.
“I’ll be just fine,” she’d snapped. “Go work out your guilt on someone else.”
It was terribly unprofessional of her, not to mention childish. She was stuck, now, though, at least until they got to the hotel.
They had begun this journey from the airport in a taxi. A four-decades-old European limo peppered with dents and bullet holes, and for some inexplicable reason, the driver had refused to take them into the bounds of the city itself.
Mac had mumbled something about a strike when she asked why he was behaving so strangely, but it was clear the man knew more than he was saying. That pissed her off, too. They were supposed to be colleagues. She was not a child.
“We’ll argue later,” he’d said, steering her by the arm onto the nearby bus, allowing the taxi driver to keep their luggage. The one thing she took was the small gray attaché, the one with her wallet, passport and, of course, the map to Shera-Sa.
She hadn’t missed the fact that he was wearing his sidearm or that he had had them both change into khakis at the small, sweltering terminal of Aero Alcazara. Picking up what she could from the people in line at customs—she was as fluent as Mac in the local language and dialects—it seemed the security situation was worsening. Westerners, prime targets of the rebels, were particularly unwanted.
Perhaps that explained the driver’s hesitancy. He did not wish to be seen in the city shuttling foreigners. It would be nice if Mac had consulted her, however, on how they were going to deal with each eventuality.
The bus stopped at the main terminal, a hodgepodge station whose architecture was a cross between the onion-domed Kremlin and an airplane hanger.
“Stick by my side,” he said as soon as they’d climbed down the wooden slat stairs onto the concrete platform. “I’ll do all the talking from here on in. Just keep your eyes low, follow my commands.”
Minarra glared. She should have seen this coming…a complete testosterone coup d’état. It never failed when guys got in an Old World country like this. Well, Mac Macallister was about to be reminded that she was not an Old World woman.
“Gee,” she smiled acerbically. “Did I miss something? She felt her bare neck and then patted her ass. “No…I don’t feel a collar or a tail. So I guess I’m not your little fucking pet then, huh?”
He drew a breath, as if she were the one behaving foolishly. “Minarra, this isn’t the time or place. Things are unfolding here fast—faster than I had expected. This is not the Alcazara you remember where archeologists’ little girls get to eat in the palace with the king and wear the jewels of princesses around their necks.”
Minarra’s blood moved quickly past the point of boiling. “How dare you,” she accused. “That was a precious memory I shared with you once and now you take it and use it as a weapon? Of course I know it’s not the eighties anymore, you asshole. King Salaam—my father’s dear friend was assassinated a decade ago. I was seventeen at the time…already way past the illusions of childhood.”
Mac frowned. “I’m sorry, Min. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just trying to protect you. Outspoken women, especially white ones are not nearly as tolerated anymore. The more you appear subservient, the safer we will both be.”
She turned up her nose. “That’s your opinion. I intend to find out for myself. I’ve done research. There is a strong democracy movement here too, and—”
Mac released a frustrated male sigh. “Damn it, woman, must you be so completely pigheaded about everything?”
She shook out her hair defiantly, determined to stand her ground, yet oddly relieved at the same time not to have to be all on her own here, making all her own choices and standing against whatever enemies might be out there. “Excuse me for trying to hold a civilized discussion,” she retorted.
If only they could reach some sort of compromise. Then again, that assumed the man was anything more than a thoughtless barbarian.
A barbarian who’s trying to protect me, she thought, operating from that secret, treasonous, “alpha male adoring” part of herself. A man who cares enough to get angry and is not afraid to be strong when he needs to…
A woman could fall for a man like that. She could dare to open the softest, most feminine side of herself. Offering, surrendering, as completely as any local harem girl. But wait, she’d already done that. And been burned to a crisp.
Mac took her wrist. “I’m not a civilized human being…remember?”
“This is kidnapping,” she informed him as he marched her down the street.
“I’m just doing my job. Keeping you safe…from yourself.”
The Hotel Sayeed was two blocks from the station. In its heyday it had hosted the rich and famous from all over Europe, including the royal families of several countries. These days it was occupied by businessmen—the few still willing to work deals with an increasingly unreliable government. Since the king’s death, a series of ineffectual caretakers had followed. The most recent, Hassan VIII, was the worst of all.
It was a sandstone structure, ten stories high, with ornate copper grillwork and columns. The doormen still wore long red coats and pith helmets, in the old British style. Three of them were on hand to let Mac and Minarra inside the lobby. No questions were asked at to their lack of a vehicle or luggage. Mac paused to give the head man an Alcazaran fifty-pound note, thanking him for his service, which confirmed Minarra’s suspicions that the taxi driver had already been by with their bags.
Once inside, he switched to holding her hand, though his grip was no-nonsense. She blushed a bit at the assumption others would make—namely that they were lovers. There were few people about. An old man with a goatee, in a white suit and a wide-brimmed hat sat in a high-backed wicker chair reading a paper while a barefoot boy in rags polished his shiny black shoes. Two women in smart business suits were quietly conversing near the elevator with a white-robed man who looked like some sort of sheik.
The marble lobby was as elegant as Minarra had remembered. Huge fans hung from the ceiling, their brass blades decorated in gold. Vases, the envy of any palace, stood guard at every doorway. The reception desk was of polished teak and the paneling on the walls was mahogany. The cigar smoke, rising in lazy wisps from the old man’s mouth, was pure Cubano.
“Shelem vakim, my American friend.” The white-gloved manager bo
wed crisply.
“Vakim shelem, Osiron,” replied Mac, returning the greeting. “You are looking well. The wives must be feeding you extra portions.” He teased in Alcazaran.
“Actually,” said the man in English, perfect and neatly clipped. “I blame the mistresses. But you are being rude,” he chided, passing him the register to sign. “You have neglected to introduce this radiant flower whose beauty you are clearly unworthy of.”
“This is Minarra,” he supplied. “My fiancée.”
“Your fiancée! Ah, my dear child,” the sleek dark-haired, dark-skinned man lamented. “You have my sympathies. And you—” He waved his finger at Mac. “You ought to be on your knees thanking the gods for such undeserved fortune.”
“I do so, every night before bed, don’t I, darling?”
Minarra squeezed Mac’s hand to the bone by way of response, indicating just how amused she was by this little charade of his. He’d pay for this later, when she got him behind closed doors. This and all the rest of it.
The manager laughed, his pencil-thin mustache vibrating ever so slightly. “Be careful, my friend, Allah does not like liars. Does he, dear lady?”
“No, he doesn’t,” Minarra agreed, deciding she liked this Osiron almost as much she hated Mac. “He certainly does not.”
“I shall need to repent,” Mac smiled behind his wince.
Good. She was getting to him.
“So shall we all.” The manager’s eyebrow rose ever so slightly, indicating something, or someone over his left shoulder.
Mac nodded in reply. The exchange had been almost imperceptible. She bided her time through the rest of the small talk. In a few moments, Mac was leading her to the elevator. She spotted the man they had referred to before. He was dressed in coveralls, holding a screwdriver, attending to one of the brass fixtures mounted on the wall.
Obviously he was some sort of spy. But for whom? This whole situation had way more questions than answers. Supposedly they were here to round up their guide and the rest of the team, collect their supplies and head into the desert. To this point, however, it was more like a Tom Clancy novel.
Minarra’s bags were waiting in the Oasis suite, along with Mac’s small valise. He opened the bag, moved aside some colored T-shirts and pulled out a spare clip for his forty-five-caliber pistol. “You’ll wait here,” he slipped the dark, metal piece into his pocket. “While I make the final arrangements with our guides.”
“The hell I will,” she declared defiantly. “You can’t possibly set things up without me. I’m the one who knows where we’re going, remember?”
“Specifically, yes. For now it’s a matter of generalities, and in general, the people I’m going to talk to do not like to deal with strangers. Particularly women.”
“I won’t be left behind.” She put her hands on her hips.
“Look, Minarra, I don’t have time to debate this…”
“Really? And given the mess you say things are in, exactly when will it be a good time?”
“When I say so. In the meantime, you are staying here and that’s final. And unless you give me your word that you will remain in this room until I come back, I will be forced to take extreme measures.”
“Like what?” She snorted.
“Like tying you up.”
A dark thrill passed through her belly. A forbidden, needy feeling she dared not voice. They’d come close to bondage in the past. Had they remained together she would eventually have asked for it. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me,” he glowered.
She screwed up her face—ready for another go at him. Then it occurred to her, she could give her word and do what she wanted anyway. After all, wasn’t he a liar himself?
“Fine.” She sat herself on the bed. “I will stay. Nice as you please.”
He lowered his brow. “You’re giving in too easily.”
“Maybe I’m just tired of fighting,” she folded her arms over her breasts.
“That’ll be the day,” he muttered under his breath. One final check of his suitcase, and he was ready to go. “Don’t wait up for me,” he told her. “Oh, and by the way,” he added at the door. “Just in case you get a hankering to follow me, I am going to ask Osiron to keep a watch over you. Should you attempt to leave the hotel he will notify me immediately.”
“Have I ever told you how much I don’t like you?” She inquired.
“I’ve gotten that idea, yes.”
“Will you at least tell me where you’re going? In case something happens—an emergency?”
He appeared to consider the proposal. “If I do, you won’t get ideas about trying to follow? Because I promise you, Osiron has eyes in the back of his head.”
Minarra nodded, once again feeling no qualms about making fake promises. “I wouldn’t dream of it…”
“It’s a place called the Seven Veils. If you need me in an emergency, anyone will know where to find it.”
“The Seven Veils?” Minarra stiffened. “What kind of meeting place is that?”
“It’s a place where men go. A place you would not be welcomed.”
“Why? Is it full of harem girls? Belly dancers? That’s it, isn’t it?”
“For heaven’s sake, Min, what difference does it make? It’s not like we’re seeing each other or anything.”
She flashed an expression of disgust. “As if…”
He rolled his eyes. “Forget I said a word.”
“Don’t patronize me, Seth Allen Macallister. You think I’m jealous, don’t you?”
He put out his hands, the universal sign of male surrender. “I’m not thinking anything—except how to put this expedition together.”
“Which is why you need me to go with you. And it shouldn’t be at any club full of half-naked hussies either. Anyone who would meet you there isn’t the sort we want with us anyway.”
“Like I said,” he grabbed his safari jacket. “Don’t wait up.”
Minarra reached for the first thing she could find to throw, which was her left desert boot. It struck the door, a second after his departure.
She clenched her fists. Once again, she’d managed to make a fool of herself, revealing far too much emotion. It was time for calm, time for reason. Opening her attaché case, she took out the map and laid it on the desk. It was approximately eight inches by eight inches and sealed inside a special laminate material, acid free. The clear laminate gave it a glossy, almost modern look.
But there was no mistaking the antiquity of it. The parchment dated to approximately 1200 B.C., which put it in the era of Egypt’s Golden Age. Minarra’s contention was that it was a copy of something much older, more along the lines of 2600 B.C. Around the edges were scribbled notes and legends, along with encoded sacred symbols. A tiny Ibix-headed human figure, representing Thoth, the Egyptian god of knowledge, a Babylonian lion god, a Safarian two-headed dragon, and many more, all forms of animals and flying creatures.
It was Thoth who pointed with his engraving stick on the map to the place inland from the coast where lay Shera-Sa itself. It was due east of the modern port city of Porto Sayeed, located in what was now nomad territory. Somewhere below the sand, a thousand feet deep. According to the accounts of various Bedouins, backed by legends centuries old, there would sometimes appear lights in the night, glowing beams, of red ruby, blue cobalt and diamond white. Were they some form of beacon? Could there be life somewhere still in Shera-Sa?
The serious scientific community ranked such tales as no more reliable than the legend of Atlantis, whose existence is documented nowhere but in one of Plato’s dialogues. Young Roger Hunt had been one of those skeptics until he had occasion himself to encounter the flashing lights, haunting beams, flickers as brilliant as the aurora borealis. It was during a sandstorm. He’d been trapped near a large dune, separated from a party of fellow archeology students. All night, he’d watched for rescuers. That’s when he’d had his vision. His eyes would light up each time he recounted it, and to the day he die
d it remained the single defining moment of his entire life. From that moment on, he had but one thing to live for. And that was finding the city once again. Ironically, in his almost superhuman attempts, he uncovered all his other treasures, several lifetimes’ worth.
He also married one of the most beautiful women ever to be born on the island of Corfu and had with her a daughter whom he called his jewel, his vision…his Minar-ra.
A tear came to Minarra’s eye. She placed her palm on the map, which she could not really touch through the plastic. Her father had been that way. So seemingly human, full of bottomless mystery, and inaccessible when it came to his true feelings.
Was it something wrong with her? That men did not wish to be close to her? Mac had run halfway around the world to get away from her…what a fool she felt.
“You’re too good for all of them, Minarra,” her had father said. “You’re like a priceless object…overawing.”
Well, she didn’t want to be a museum piece. And she didn’t want to live only as a curator of them, either. She was a live woman. Witness her dreams. She was so desperate for human contact that she was bringing her research to life, concocting mad princes instead of finding real, healthy men.
Damn Mac for going off so blithely to his Seven Veils. She’d lay odds it was a whorehouse. What gave him the right to play around, leaving her stuck in this room? He could waltz off when he felt like it, leaving her to do all the real work of map reading and then come back and expect her to bow down to his so-called leadership.
It was time to rein this guy in. To teach him a little lesson. He thought he could just turn her passion on and off? Use her when he felt like it? His whore one minute, his academic prop, making him look good the next? Well, he had another think coming. This hotel had a bar, didn’t it? She could find herself some trouble right here without breaking out of the prison he’d put her in. That would show him. Yes. She’d go down to the bar, have a couple of drinks, do some flirting. Give Osiron, with those eyes in the back of his head, something to report. She could just picture Mac, getting word and feeling about six inches high for abandoning her. With any luck, she’d make him jealous, too.
Prisoner of Shera-Sa Page 5
