"Who is this man whose death you seek?"
She moved to the table and withdrew a photograph from her valise. It was over a year old, snapped by one of her lesser minions. She glanced at the picture herself and thought what a shame it was he had to die. He would make a welcome addition to her harem if his principles could be corrupted. Only, he was too dangerous. Even crazed by demons, his principles would eventually win out. She couldn't have that. She held the photo out to Lapinov.
"His name is Peter Talladay. And, Dimitri," she met his gaze somberly. "Make it count."
With that, she returned to the window, her attention on Ra'id as she stewed in frustration. Ra'id still had the final key she needed and she couldn't just kill him to get it. His genetic inheritance housed the link necessary to use the bronze key, to enter Sargon's Labyrinth. Damn the man for being necessary, if only for a little while.
Ra'id al-Mawsil was handsome to a fault and charismatic to boot -- qualities many men had. Except it wasn't simple charisma behind those dark eyes. Her smile turned cold as she studied him. In Ra'id, beauty and charisma were a lethal mix. Had she needed proof, those poor idiots milling about in the street would have been it. The force of his personality and his passion ensnared them -- they were willing to die for whatever cause he extolled. The sign of a true leader.
Leader! She scoffed inwardly at the mere thought. Ra'id was as dim-witted and easily led as the rest of those sheep. He honestly believed his visions to be a mandate from Allah. She laughed. What would the God of Abraham want with the contents of Ashurbanipal's priestly library? The mere thought would be sacrilege to a true Muslim or Jew.
The woman allowed herself a scornful smirk. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Ra'id al-Mawsil and his little Jihad were frauds. His holy war had its roots not in the laws of Islam, but in something very different, and millennia older. If she completed her own mission correctly, Ra'id would soon find himself at the heart of a cleansing storm meant to bring a power into the world only a god could hope to control.
Chapter Nine
Matt winced as he carefully put weight on his right leg, testing it before leaning on the cane Manara gave him. He turned his head to smile at his dubious nurse.
"You should not be up yet." She glared at him. "I told you it was too soon, but you do not listen."
Matt smiled at the censure in her voice, reached out with his free hand to catch hers and gave it a light squeeze. "I know. But I'm a terrible patient and I needed the fresh air."
At Manara's mutinous expression, Matt battled down the desire to pull her soft curves against him and taste those petulant lips again. He stifled a groaned and averted his gaze. The past two weeks had been more torturous than the three months he spent beaten to a pulp in a Somali mercenary camp.
Matt sighed, all too aware of why he needed this freedom, and it wasn't just the confinement. Watching Manara move around the tent and feeling her gentle, capable hands on him tested the limits of his control. However, the nights -- with her soft warmth cuddled trustingly against him -- nearly drove him insane with need. Matt swallowed hard, and viciously suppressed the visions that sliced deep into his soul. He wasn't about to go there, or even acknowledge how those hallucinations affected him. Since when did he want entangled with a complicated woman? He liked his women tough and easy, with simple desires – none of which extended beyond a single night. His only two lengthy relationships in the past were built on the understanding his heart wasn't part of the bargain. Yet, just a week ago, he offered to give up everything for this woman. In cool reflection, he couldn't believe he'd been so impulsive. She wasn't even his type.
Besides, Matt reminded himself harshly, she's hiding something.
For all he knew, she could be just like his foster mother.
Matt snorted derisively at his own thought. As hard as he tried, he couldn't picture gentle, compassionate Manara ever hurting anyone. After all, hadn't she called herself a healer?
Get a grip, he commanded himself with a scowl. She saved your sorry ass, so of course you want her. It's all mental.
It sure as hell didn't feel mental, he conceded as his gaze riveted on Manara's gently swaying rear as she started toward the tent where she said his men were. His mind might believe it was time to say thanks and good-bye, but his body had other ideas, all of which involved getting Manara naked and into his arms.
Determined to ignore that dangerous line of thought, Matt hobbled to catch up with her, careful to keep his gaze fixed on their destination rather than his tempting guide. Manara glanced back. The apology in her gray eyes as she slowed her pace to match his impaired one annoyed Matt. He hated pity; his gut churned to see it from this woman.
Anger, he learned long ago, was counterproductive in most cases. With a deep breath, he shoved his annoyance deep inside and focused instead on peeling back another layer of the enigma before him. He had more questions than answers; he'd start with the simple ones.
"Were you born in Sidon?"
Her response was unexpected. He expected reticence, but the blind panic that crossed her face before she controlled it surprised him. Why should such a simple question inspire so much fear?
"No." She shook her head in emphasis.
He waited for her to supply an answer. When it became apparent she didn't intend to, he pressed, "So?"
She sighed. "I was born in what you call Syria."
One more piece of the puzzle and it only took an act of God, Matt acknowledged in wry humor. At this rate, he wasn't liable to get much more without resorting to tactics more likely to get him slapped than her talking. Just what did she have to hide? "So you're Syrian. What--?"
"No." Her abrupt denial startled him, but no more so than how quickly she stopped moving, whipping about to face him. "My people know no such boundary."
Which confused the hell out of him. "You just said--"
"It was the answer you expected to hear."
"And the truth?"
"I am Mesopotamian."
The word hit him broadside. This conversation got stranger by the second.
"I'm no expert on ancient cultures," he hedged, which wasn't entirely true. Practically from birth, his mother tutored him on antiquity, passing on all her knowledge. Almost as if she knew even then, she wouldn't be around long enough for traditional education. Matt's throat tightened, but he shook off the pain when he realized Manara was waiting for him to finish. He cleared his throat and started over. "I'm no expert, but wasn't Mesopotamia divided centuries ago? I don't think any culture actually ever referred to themselves that way."
She nodded. "Millennia ago, in fact. In the time my people revere, we were known as Sumerians. Now, we range this entire region between the sacred rivers and so I say we are Mesopotamian."
"I see." Either she was totally crackers, as Pete would say, or this woman forgot what century she was in. Still, her words raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Sumerian. He shivered and rubbed his face to expel the tension. When he opened his eyes, he found Manara watching him again, her expression confused.
"Why does it matter so much to you?" she asked softly.
His brow furrowed. She acted as if there was nothing special about her. Didn't she know how fascinating she was? "Because it tells me more about you."
A rosy blush stole up her neck and over her cheeks, enchanting him. It amazed him how this innocent drew him in so many ways no other woman ever had. She resumed walking without a word, plunging him further into the mystery of Manara.
"Where are you going?"
Her expression shuttered. He hated that. "To the hospital tent."
"Not what I meant." One glance at her told him she knew it.
She shook her head. "I did not say we intend to move this camp."
"Damn it, Manara." He hobbled faster, ignoring the fiery pain that stabbed his leg and gut as he struggled to keep up with her brisk pace. "Don't treat me like I'm stupid. This entire camp is set up to break down and move at an instant's notice. I
thought it was one of those Arab brothels, but it's clearly not since you're here."
Manara stopped again. "Why does my presence make a difference?"
He coughed, uncertain how to put this delicately. Ah, hell. "You're a virgin, Manara. One doesn't normally find virgins in a brothel."
Another flush stained her cheeks, but he wasn't sure it was modesty. She looked pissed. She drew herself up to her full height -- a whole five foot, five inches -- and faced him down. "You want to know who I am and why I am here."
Just like that, she got to the heart of what bothered him most -- that he couldn't figure her out.
"Yes."
"And what right do you have to that information? You have yet to speak a word about your own reasons for being in the desert."
He sighed. He should have expected this. "Manara, that's classified."
Her disdainful expression told him what she thought of his excuse. "My reasons are my own, Matthew Raleigh and will remain so. Do not mistake my virginity for some...some quaint belief of innocence. I know a great many things that would surprise you."
Her words hit him like the business end of a Stinger missile. His brain clicked off as his libido took over, painting fantasies of what she might know. There were so many possibilities. He frowned when he realized she had to learn it from somewhere. Hot fury blindsided him and he snapped back from his fantasies to find his hands clenched in fists.
He blinked, and focused on Manara as she took off again, moving at a clip there was no way he could hope to maintain in his current state. Matt's gaze narrowed on her backside and a different kind of pain clenched in him. No doubt, she'd end up driving him insane.
By the time they reached the billowing cotton pavilion at the camp's center, Matt was convinced he was already insane. He bit down on a curse, but not quite quick enough and Manara cast him a worried glance before ducking through the entrance. Matt forced his expression to blank, wishing he could do the same to his heart, before following her inside.
He wasn't sure what he expected to find inside the tent, but it certainly wasn't this, Matt acknowledged as he stared in wide-eyed shock at what had to be nearly a hundred sick or severely injured people. They were of all ages. Some lay on reed pallets along the walls, while others moved about the large tent. All of them bore the same weathered expressions of pain. Confused, he looked to Manara for an explanation. "What..."
"This," she gestured around them, "is our hospice. Here, we care for the sick and wounded, regardless of their nationality, religion, or status."
"We?" Matt latched onto that word then its meaning as he watched a group of white-clad women moving among the wounded and infirm.
She nodded. "The ishtaristu perform many functions. Many are very skilled at healing arts, like herbal medicine. They attend to the people who come here with medicines and prayer. When they can no longer help, they call upon me."
"What can you do that they can't?"
Her gaze darted away from his and he couldn't stop the clench of dread in his gut. She was hiding things again. He watched her throat work before she looked his way again He knew she wasn't being completely honest with him even as she said, "I... I determine the nature of the illness and if it can be cured."
"Amazing." His gaze traveled over the room and his respect for her went up another notch. Still, he was hazy on why, when this tent existed, he awoke to find himself with his own personal nurse. "Why wasn't I brought here?"
She glanced away again and the feeling was back -- the one that said she searched for an answer that wasn't the complete truth. "There were... complications. Restrictions. I was the only one able to care for you."
Damn it, she was lying; he'd bet his life on it. It was a cold consolation to see she clearly didn't like doing it any more than he liked knowing it. However, studying her distant expression, he realized it wasn't worth the battle to find out why. She saved his life. Let her keep her secrets, for now.
"Mukarramma!"
The familiar word snapped Matt's attention around to see one of the women waving as she hurried toward them.
"A-na, Shahdi?"
The other woman came to an abrupt stop before them. A gasp left her as she stared up at him with the widest, bluest eyes he'd ever seen. He never met a woman of her obvious ethnicity with blue eyes before, and certainly not that vivid, china blue. She looked stunned, before she suddenly dropped to her knees at his feet, her head bowed.
"Na, Shahdi." The furtive panic in Manara's voice was unmistakable as she grasped the other woman's arm and raised her from the ground. Matt's brow furrowed. From the repetition of the word, he assumed this woman's name was Shahdi. A Persian name. Which made no sense, if these women were all Syrian. And why had she dropped to the floor like that?
"Mukarramma, im-sarra..."
"Na." Manara shook her head again firmly. Irritation flared in Matt. He didn't understand a word of what they said. It was just enough like Hebrew or Arabic to frustrate him. "A-na?"
Shahdi, on her feet again, grasped Manara's hand in an imploring gesture. Her expression spoke clearer than her words. Whatever brought her to Manara was urgent. She looked terrified.
"Gi-ge gìrilúdu, Kianga, ri-dihbi, en-na."
Matt's eyes narrowed as he tried to pick up clues from their expressions. He'd already figured out they were discussing a third party, both from Shahdi's stricken expression and anxious pitch as well as from the concern on Manara's face. Dread clenched in him and his gaze stayed on Manara as her attention shifted beyond Shahdi.
"Menašè gituknus reia?"
Shahdi's eyes followed Manara's gaze toward the opposite end of the hospice tent, even as she shook her head slowly. "Ené-u. Uhtuku bàia šar a-silšemme akana a-dah rehul á-sàg."
As Matt listened to the two women converse, the feeling of doom grew heavier on his shoulders. He might not understand a word they said, but their body language telegraphed loud and clear that something was terribly wrong. He concentrated harder on the words, but couldn't glean anything useful. Still, the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood up on end at the sounds, and his subconscious said he should know what they said.
"Regi-ge. Akana ga-dah." As Shahdi left, Manara turned toward him so suddenly Matt jerked backwards a step. Her smile was worried and apologetic. His throat closed at the wistful expression on her face.
"Forgive me, Matthew. I know I said I would take you to your men, but Shahdi needs my aid. If you wait here..."
He could, but some rebellious part of him didn't want to let her go so soon. "Do you mind terribly if I tag along? I'd like to see you in action."
She nodded her acquiescence, then followed the petite woman she'd called Shahdi toward a pallet set off to one side by itself. The pallet's occupant was a girl, looking about only five or six, with eyes like death. Matt's heart constricted as he gazed at the child. Her face bordered on translucent and her limbs were little more than skin and bone. She looked fragile -- as if a mere jostle would shatter every bone in her tiny body. Her stomach was distended and her face was lined and sagging in a manner more common to the elderly than the young.
Shahdi materialized at his side, startling Matt with the suddenness of her appearance. What was it with these women that they came and went like the wind? He glanced at her and empathy twisted in him at the lost desperation on her face. She held a ragged teddy bear clutched to her chest, her sad gaze fixed not on Manara, but on the child who lay still on the pallet before them. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, his chest tightened with empathic pain. The little girl barely looked alive. In all his years as a paramedic, he'd never seen anyone so close to death come back from that dark ledge.
"I'm sorry," he offered in Arabic as he laid one hand on Shahdi's shoulder and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. "Is she your daughter?"
Shahdi's gaze turned as if she was surprised to find she wasn't alone before her head shook and the pain glazing her blue eyes struck him. This was a woman who knew a pain so deep
no one could touch it. He understood the look far too well.
"I have no children."
Matt resisted the urge to comfort her with a hug, surprising him both because he wasn't a spontaneously tactile person and because he already knew he would panic her more if he followed his instinct. Giving her shoulder another squeeze, he turned his attention to the girl again to diagnose her condition. As a trained paramedic, he'd seen all matter of battle wounds, not to mention quite a few nasty illnesses in his life. This little girl's sunken features hit him on a level that had little to do with being a medic and much more to do with being human. She looked ancient -- as if something sucked not just the life, but her youth, out of her.
"What's wrong with her?" He watched Manara kneel beside the pallet and address the child in a soft voice he couldn't distinguish. His heart squeezed at the effort it took for the little girl to merely nod her head in response.
"She has bilharzia, Sayyid," Shahdi replied quietly. "Very advanced. Only Mukarramma can save her now."
"Mukarramma?" Matt's brow furrowed. That was the name he kept hearing in his dreams. To know beyond a doubt it wasn't just a figment of his imagination was disconcerting.
Shahdi nodded vigorously. "She has the Gift. She alone can save this child."
Matt's eyes settled on Manara as his dreams flooded back. She was the one Shahdi referred to. He didn't even have to ask. The woman kneeling beside the child's pallet was a very different one from the innocent who slept at his side every night. A sense of command, an aura of complete capability and otherworldly strength radiated from her now. The woman who slept beside him was fragile and soft. This one was strong and controlled. Which was the real Manara, which the illusion?
A prickling sensation began at the base of his skull as he watched Manara's hands float in the air above the child's abdomen. He knew what that prickling meant and he didn't like it. The same feeling hit him when he was trapped in Rachel's Hell, and again in his paralyzing dreams. It was the sensation of the supernatural at work. As his gaze fixed on Manara's hands, he thought he saw light billow from her skin like a bright cloud, and his mind whirled away into another time and place.
In Her Name Page 9