“You haven’t been with another woman? Not since me?”
“You sound incredulous,” he said with a nasty, clipped quality to his voice. “May I presume you’ve not been quite so assiduous in maintaining your own marital fidelity?”
“Well, since I thought I was a widow, there wasn’t any marital fidelity to maintain, was there?” I gave him a cheerful smile that concealed much. “You really ought to rectify that situation. You’re quite right. It isn’t healthy for a man’s insides. Perhaps you can find a nice girl in Damascus. I hear they have quite good prostitutes there.”
His mouth went from slack to hanging fully open. He closed it with a snap that must have rattled his teeth.
“Now,” I said briskly, “what is Hamid’s plan?”
“Hamid insists upon going to the aid of Aysha and Rashid’s people. Hamid feels it would be a disgrace not to support them. His rifles are longer range. He thinks he can shoot at least one of the planes down and perhaps both, inshallah.”
“Does Hamid know that the planes are most likely not after the Bedu at all?”
He hesitated. “Hamid is a trifle intractable on the subject of aeroplanes. I tried to explain that they were most likely just searching the desert for oil surveys or something equally innocuous, but he thinks they’re French reconnaissance after Bedouin rebels. I couldn’t reassure him completely without explaining about the Cross, so I went along with it.”
Just then the sheikh beckoned to us.
“I hear some planes have been spotted to the east,” I said. At this half a dozen men broke out in fervent Arabic, and I caught one word repeated several times. Saqr.
“What does that mean—saqr?” I asked Gabriel. “I’ve heard the word before.”
He shrugged. “It’s a bird of prey, a hawk or falcon, I think. Their flowery Bedouin way of referring to an aeroplane,” he said smoothly.
I turned again to the men, but the swiftness of their colloquial Arabic flowed right past me. They argued back and forth, and several times Hamid shot Gabriel a meaningful look only to find Gabriel was studying his shoes or cleaning his fingernails.
Eventually, they seemed to come to some understanding and the men dispersed, clearly excited.
It was only when I saw Rashid trotting away that I remembered where I had heard the word saqr. “It’s not just an aeroplane,” I said to Gabriel. “It’s a sort of folk hero among the Bedu, the Falcon of the Desert, they call him.”
He lifted a lazy brow. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of him. He’s just a bit of local folklore.”
“But he isn’t just folklore,” I said slowly. I was trying to remember everything Rashid had told me. “He’s real. He led the Bedouin during the war, united them against the Turks.”
“Did he?”
“Of course he did. Why on earth would they still talk about him if he didn’t exist?”
His look was pitying. “My dear child, do you have any notion of what the Turks were up to out here? They were committing atrocities that would have made Attila the Hun blush. They raided all through this part of the Badiyat ash-Sham, doing whatever they bloody well liked, and killing as many as they possibly could as nastily as they could.”
“I’m sure it was horrible,” I began, but he waved me to silence.
“Horrible? What a dainty, drawing-room sort of word to describe what they did. In one village, they dug a pit and hurled every last soul—man, woman and child—into it before pouring burning pitch over the lot of them. The lucky ones died quickly,” he said, his jaw tight. “They raped women and nailed their corpses to the walls with bayonets. They pulled entrails out of men and staked them out for the jackals to feed on while their victims still lived. They lanced children,” he said, his eyes glittering. “Children. And nothing could stop them, not even your famous Colonel Lawrence.”
“Lawrence did try,” I pointed out.
He laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound. “In the first place, Lawrence spent most of his time far south of here—in the Hejaz, bolstering Faisal’s shaky popularity with any tribe that wasn’t Hashemite. And in the second, Lawrence was captured by the Turks and do you know what he got for his pains? He was beaten and raped by them. I’ll wager that didn’t end up in one of your little newsreels.”
I gaped at him. “How on earth do you know that?”
He hesitated only a fraction of a second. Anyone else might have missed it. But I did not. “Word gets around in the desert.”
And suddenly, with a flash of something I can only think of as inspiration, I knew one of the secrets Gabriel had been hiding.
“During the war, when you were dodging your responsibilities and poking around the desert for treasure, you must have heard of the Saqr.”
“I heard of him,” he said reluctantly. “But his identity was a closely guarded secret. The Bedouin learned from Lawrence’s mistakes. His showmanship got a bounty put on his head and distracted from the matters at hand. The Bedouin were much quieter about the Saqr—to speak of him would have been dangerous for him and lethal for them.”
“But you must have run across him,” I persisted.
He said nothing, and I thought furiously for a moment, the truth dawning so suddenly I nearly fell over. “My, God. It’s Hamid. He’s the Saqr, isn’t he? The desert prince who leads his people wielding the sickle blade of a crescent moon and riding a milk white horse? It is Hamid,” I said in quiet triumph.
Gabriel fixed me with a hard stare. “I trust you will keep this information to yourself,” he said, his voice clipped and cold. “I don’t think I need to tell you what might happen if that fact fell into the wrong hands.”
“You mean Herr Doktor,” I said furiously. “You are absolutely wrong about him, you know. He is a darling old man, and I happen to trust him.”
Gabriel’s expression was bored. “Well, I don’t. Be a good girl and keep Hamid’s secret, will you?” He thrust his hands into his pockets, whistling a bit of Purcell as he went.
* * *
Herr Doktor had spiked a fever and Faiz kept a watchful eye upon him while the rest of us set off to visit the village that had complained of the aeroplanes flying overhead. It was a glorious morning, with a pink wash of sunlight over the landscape, and a quick breeze picking up the streamers tied to the lances. Each man carried not only the traditional weapons of sword and lance, but there was a rifle tucked into each saddle, as well. The camels were hung with richly tasselled saddle cloths and I realised for the first time that each camel bell sounded a unique note, blending together in a strange melody as we travelled. The horses were fitted with embroidered headstalls held by a single rein, but they were so well-trained and light of foot they hardly seemed to touch the ground. Hamid’s mount was a beautiful creature called Hadibah. I noticed with interest that she was the colour of a pale grey pearl.
Gabriel had sunk into a sort of sulk—no doubt because I had forced his hand about admitting Sheikh Hamid was the Saqr—and I ignored him, as much as I could in light of the fact that we were sharing a camel. I chatted with Hamid, who pointed out the desert landmarks that would have gone completely unremarked by the casual observer.
The sheikh looked at me in surprise when I said as much. “But of course, the desert has landmarks. How do you think we navigate?”
He explained about the system of wells and faint tracks that linked them, the ancient ways through the desert and the fluid and elegant system of navigation that enabled them to thrive in such a place. It was deeply fascinating, but behind me, Gabriel sat rigidly and said nothing.
We were still some distance away when Hamid slowed, his hooded eyes watchful. He held up a hand for silence and after a moment a high, tiny sound emerged from the stillness.
Gabriel cocked his head a moment then barked a word in Arabic, and suddenly Hamid gave a signal and the entire company charged
forward. The camels covered the ground as swiftly as horses, their odd, rocking gait eating up the distance to the village. As we approached, we could hear the shouts from these Bedouin, some calling hurried greetings to Hamid and his men, the others crying out warnings as two tiny dots dropped down from the sky.
They were no bigger than insects at first, but they came nearer, growing larger as the noise of their engines filled the air. The village horses began to stamp at their pegs and the men raised rifles, shouting curses and threats at the incoming planes.
It was folly; their weapons were ancient things, far too unreliable to hit a plane at any distance, and these two were still just out of reach for even a decent infantry rifle. One of them was sitting smoothly, the wings holding steady, but as they closed the distance and dropped a little lower, I saw that one was bucking hard, fighting the pilot every inch of the way.
Next to me, Sheikh Hamid raised his Enfield and sighted the struggling plane. He paused, his finger poised on the trigger. Ammunition for an English rifle was too expensive to waste, I realised. He would wait until the shot was clean. I held my breath, wondering if this was what it had been like for all those boys I had nursed at the convalescent hospital—this impossible moment when every nerve stretched like elastic, taut and vibrating and very nearly broken.
My palms ached, and I realised I had dug my nails straight into them.
“You might not want to watch,” Gabriel suggested, his voice mild.
“I can handle anything you can,” I muttered. But before the last word was out of my mouth, I was standing on the edge of the camel saddle, high on my mount, straining my eyes into the morning sun.
The planes had dropped lower still, and the one in back was barely holding itself together, shaking and bucking until it seemed it must fall to pieces. Hamid tracked it with the sight, and just as he began to squeeze the trigger, I launched myself out of the saddle, shoving his rifle into the air so the shot went high. I landed on his horse’s neck and she began to plunge and shriek, tossing us both onto the hard ground. I landed on Hamid and it took a moment for Gabriel to jump from our camel and disentangle us.
“Evie, what the hell was that? Not only did you ruin his shot, you fell on top of him! Do you have any idea how much you have insulted him?”
I looked up to find the rest of the men staring at me in horror, and Hamid, his face purple with outrage, waiting for an explanation.
I dusted myself off. “Aasif, Sheikh Hamid. I am so sorry, I do hope that’s the right word. I really do beg your pardon most awfully, but you see I couldn’t let you shoot that plane,” I told him. I turned to see both aeroplanes dropping to the road, landing neatly and rolling to a stop as the villagers began to surge towards them.
Hamid’s jaw was tight with anger. “And why could I not shoot that aeroplane, sitt?”
“Well, because it’s mine.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I made a rushed explanation as we hurried along with the villagers and by the time we reached the planes, Hamid was able to persuade the local folk who were preparing to drag the pilots out and hang them that they were friendly visitors and not French spies at all.
He finished by turning to me and asking me to vouch for them. “Of course, I vouch for them. The lady is my aunt,” I said, pushing through the throng of people to reach her. I threw my arms around her. “Darling, what on earth are you doing here?” I hugged her as tightly as I could. “Don’t mistake me, I’m desperately glad to see you, but don’t hug me again. I smell of camel. But what are you doing here?”
Aunt Dove pulled off her leather flying helmet and fluffed her white curls then reached into her pocket for a folded newspaper clipping.
“Have a look for yourself,” she told me.
“What’s this?” I asked. I opened it to find my own face staring back at me under the headline Celebrated Aviatrix Missing in Desert. I sucked in a breath as I skimmed the article. Famed aviatrix Evangeline Merryweather Starke has been reported missing from an archaeological site in the desert outside of Damascus, it began. It went on to say that I had vanished along with the expedition’s co-leader, a man of whom remarkably few facts were known, although the piece ended with lurid speculation as to why we had disappeared.
“Oh, dear. However did they get that story?”
“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” said a smooth voice. The crowd parted and John Halliday walked towards me, tugging off his own helmet. He looked a good deal less clean and tidy than he had in Damascus, but there was something decidedly attractive about him in his pilot’s rig.
He put out his hand to take mine. “Evie, do forgive the dramatic entrance, but we’ve been combing the desert looking for you. I don’t mind telling you, we’ve been rather frantic.” He looked at the assembled crowd and immediately his eye fell upon Hamid, and with the homing instincts of a true diplomat, he realised at once that Hamid was the sheikh. Halliday made a low bow and a few silken sentences of his fluent Arabic did the trick. Within moments the headman of the village had vacated a tent for us and Hamid acted as host. A shrieking Arthur Wellesley was retrieved from the Jolly Roger with the ghastly cage Rashid had bought for him. Aunt Dove talked soothingly to him as the Bedouin bustled around.
“Oh, my poor little darling. Would you like something to eat?” She crumbled a biscuit from her pocket, but he merely hopped up and down, scolding. She shook her head and turned to me.
“He has been in a wretched mood ever since we left Damascus. I am beginning to think he doesn’t much care for aeroplanes,” she said thoughtfully. She slipped a flask from her small travel bag and gave him a sizeable drink. He perked up then, telling the kaiser to bugger off a few times, much to Hamid’s amusement.
“That is a clever bird,” he remarked.
“He’s a nuisance and ought to be drowned in a bathtub,” I muttered. Arthur shrieked again, and Aunt Dove gave me a repressive look.
“He understands you, you know.” She soothed him down again and by the time he was settled with some nuts and a few bits of dried fruit and several more sips of brandy, we were given the fullest hospitality the village could offer. Water was brought for washing and then food—a simple meal of stewed vegetables and flatbreads and nuts, but I was too happy to eat. I hadn’t realised how much of a strain the past several days had been until I saw familiar, friendly faces. Of course, Gabriel’s face had been familiar, but it certainly hadn’t been friendly, and it had grown even more sour since the planes had landed. I would have thought he’d have been pleased to know the villagers weren’t being surveilled by hostile French, and was nearly on the point of telling him so when Aunt Dove peered through the dim light of the tent, staring intently at him for the first time.
“Bless my soul, it’s Gabriel Starke!” she cried. “So you’ve been here all the time, have you? Well, that is interesting.”
John Halliday’s head snapped up. “This is a turn-up for the books. I say, weren’t you given up for dead after the Lusitania, Mr. Starke?”
Gabriel was quietly consuming his food. “Yes, and being dead suited me, so I think we’ll dispense with the questions if it’s all the same to you.”
“Gabriel!” I nudged him as hard as I could in the ribs, hoping I’d hit something vital. “Don’t be rude. I do apologise, Mr. Halliday. My husband always did have a filthy temper and death hasn’t improved it.”
“Oh!” Aunt Dove exclaimed. “He is still your husband, isn’t he? Now, I see it—you were masquerading as that interesting archaeologist Rowan in Damascus, the one we had dinner with, the fellow with appalling table manners. I can’t believe I didn’t recognise it then, but it’s all in the eyes, I think. No one could mistake those beautiful blue eyes—so wasted on a man! Well, come and give me a kiss and later on you can explain how you managed to survive a shipwreck, to say nothing of why you’ve been pretending to be someone you aren’t
.”
Gabriel went and kissed her papery cheek with a loud smack. She slapped him lightly. “There’s a good boy. I’m sure you had your reasons. The Gabriel Starke I knew wouldn’t do something so frightfully stupid without a good reason.”
He stared at her a long moment with something like gratitude before turning away.
I held out the newspaper to him. “Read all about us. Apparently I’ve been abducted and you are possibly a sex criminal.”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, snatching it out of my fingers. I turned back to Aunt Dove.
“How did you come to be flying the Jolly Roger, Auntie?” I asked. “And where’s Wally?”
She gave me a sorrowful smile. “I’m afraid he had to leave, dear girl. Trouble at home.” She turned to the others to include them. “Wally’s father is Viscount Walters, you know. Wally is heir to the title. A very pretty estate in Hampshire, I’m sure you’ve heard of it—Mistledown? Doesn’t that sound ethereal? Such a charming name for a house, although the Walters men have always run to eccentricity. Anyway, the old fellow had a bad turn and poor Wally was wanted at home, no doubt for some hearty deathbed recriminations. It was all quite sudden and the dear boy was wretched about the whole thing, but I packed him onto the first train out of Damascus and told him not to worry, that I would manage the Jolly Roger.”
“I still can’t believe you flew her—and all the way from Damascus!”
“You needn’t look so shocked. It may be the furthest I’ve flown, but I did a splendid job, if I say it myself,” she said, her tone a trifle miffed.
City of Jasmine Series, Book 2 Page 25
