by H. B. Moore
Passports. There were at least a dozen of them—all male, all Arab. Are they stolen? Or maybe Omar is holding them for the crew. But the passports all contained different pictures of Omar—all with different names. Something still rested at the bottom of the pouch. Reaching in, Alem removed the metal object. He was surprised to see an ornate Christian cross. Omar is Muslim, isn’t he? Alem turned the relic over in his palm. The cross was similar to the Greek Orthodox emblem.
A commotion erupted near the tents as the boss commanded everyone to gather their things. Alem pocketed the pouch, passports and all, and hurried to the tent he shared with a couple of other men. They’d already cleared out, so he grabbed his duffel bag and bedroll, then helped strike the tent. Everyone worked at a feverish pace. “What’s going on?” Alem asked one man.
The Arab adjusted the glasses on his nose, then shrugged and lifted a heavy bundle into one of the trucks. An engine backfired, and Alem’s pulse jump-started. One by one, the trucks started pulling out. He sprinted to the last remaining truck and climbed into the back, taking his place next to the other crew members. He tried to catch his breath as he wondered about Omar’s true identity.
Suddenly the truck veered north, away from the main city. “Where are we going?” he asked the skeleton of a man next to him. He figured his lousy Arabic was better than the crewman’s nonexistent English.
“New job. We must leave before the police catch up to us.”
Alem’s mind reeled. They didn’t have permission to excavate? “What about Qarn al-Asad? We just leave it torn apart?”
“There are no bones here.”
“Bones? Whose bones?”
The other crewmen stared at him now, and the Arab laughed, showing gaps between his yellowed teeth. “Bilqis—the queen—who else? She is all we ever search for.”
Excitement pulsed through Alem. Bilqis was the Yemeni name for the queen of Sheba.
The other men turned their solemn gazes toward Alem as the Arab continued, “And when we find the queen, we’ll all be executed.”
“Executed?”
“You think we get paid this well for pottery?”
Alem opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came.
The Arab slapped his leg and laughed. “You will learn. Very, very soon.”
“What will I learn?” Alem asked. The others looked away, and silence ensued over the roar of the engine. The truck sped along the rocky ground, jostling the workers together.
If I had anything left in my stomach, it would have been purged by now, Alem thought with contempt. At least he was better off than Omar. Where was his friend? But his question went unanswered as the hours passed, and by the time darkness settled, a couple of the men had fallen asleep.
Alem felt panic building in his chest. With the dark came his fear of cramped quarters. Suffocating . . . he felt as though he would go ballistic, or at least injure someone. His fist involuntarily flexed—open, shut, open, shut—as if he were eager to smash someone in the nose. He could almost feel the collapse of the delicate bones beneath his knuckles.
The truck lurched to a stop, slamming Alem into the man next to him. Those sleeping were knocked awake, and bodies jostled on top of one another. Alem made his way through the men and stumbled out of the truck, grateful he’d incurred only a few bruises. He stretched his tired limbs and looked up at the moon.
Then a gunshot rang out.
His heart stilled. The men around him dodged for cover under the truck. Some started running to nowhere.
Another gunshot sounded.
Adrenaline sliced through him as he scrambled beneath the truck, where he huddled with a few of the men. Fierce whispering surrounded him, something about an informant, but the Arabic was too rapid for him to fully grasp, though there was no mistaking the fear.
When several quiet moments had passed, some of the men moved from their hiding place and started walking around the truck. It took another full minute before Alem scooted his way out. Groups of Arab workers stood clustered together.
Moving past the truck, Alem saw a figure lying on the ground near the lead vehicle. The man’s light-colored shirt was stained scarlet, his limbs eerily still. Nobody knelt beside the body offering medical aid. One man stood a short distance away. The moonlight splashed against his features. It was Rabbel, the crew boss, an AK-47 cradled in his arms.
“You!” Rabbel strode toward him. “Get in the truck!”
Alem climbed obediently into the cab and slid over the parched vinyl upholstery. Grandmother, he thought, I’ll bet you didn’t think your request to find Queen Makeda would turn out like this. Am I to be a martyr before the journey even begins? The crew boss rounded up the remaining men and forced them inside their respective vehicles. Suddenly Alem’s door flew open, and Rabbel pointed at the steering wheel with his rifle.
“You drive.”
CHAPTER
9
Cairo
Not yet open to the public for the day, the courtyard of the Coptic Museum was deserted, and Lucas led Jade to a small side door. “I’ll be able to show you around with no interruptions,” he said as he inserted the key into the lock.
Jade shifted her backpack from one shoulder to the other, grateful to have the place to themselves.
“You can leave that in my office.”
“It’s all right. I’ll keep it with me.” She stepped into the museum and waited as Lucas turned the lights on. When the fluorescent bulbs flickered to full strength, she crossed to a display case filled with ancient weavings. One drew her attention—its red cloth contained two seminude dancing figures.
Lucas stepped up behind her. “The angel and the saint.”
His breath tickled her neck, but she ignored the sensation. She leaned closer to the case and read the description aloud: “Made during the sixth or seventh century BC.” She looked at Lucas. “Too late for the queen of Sheba.”
“Most of these textiles are from the same era.” He moved along the case. “Here’s the Flying Angel, dated a century or two earlier and done on linen instead of wool.”
“Both depict grapes.” Jade made notes on her phone about the polychrome color designs showing a flying angel who carried a red garland, and about the vine leaves and bunches of grapes in the right-hand corner of the textile.
“Food for the gods.” He stopped before another textile piece, pointing. “This shows a musical celebration centered on the god Pan. The queen of Sheba would have been more than familiar with him in his Arabian form.”
Jade moved to his side and studied the third-century artifact. “Do you believe the Ethiopians’ claim that the queen worshipped pagan gods?”
“At least until she met Solomon. His explanation of an almighty God may have converted her to the God of Israel, which was ironic because in his later years, Solomon returned to his pagan worshipping.” Lucas looked at her for a moment.
His eyes were warm today. Welcoming. She tried to focus on the textile square.
“I think it’s reasonable to reject the idea that she became a goddess herself, as some believe,” he said.
“It was unusual for a woman to have so much power and wealth as the queen, but even if she wasn’t an ethereal goddess, don’t you think it possible that she had visionary powers?”
“Perhaps; perhaps not. Regardless, she was the second-most powerful ruler in antiquity after Solomon. The question is, where did she rule?” He scratched at the stubble on his chin, which Jade noticed was longer.
She was suddenly aware that they were very alone in the museum. She continued walking and paused in front of a seventh-century St. Antony icon. “Who else knows about Dr. Lyon’s theory on Ubar?”
“The members of DiscoveryArch,” Lucas said, leaning toward the St. Antony icon as if to read its plaque.
“DiscoveryArch?”
“An exclusive online commu
nity of scholars from around the world—many of them archaeologists.” He let out a low breath and straightened. “I was accepted into their private organization a year ago. It’s quite a remarkable group—the only one of its kind. Most of the ideas shared don’t create much of a stir. But when Dr. Lyon proposed Ubar as a location for the queen of Sheba’s tomb, quite a bit of arguing erupted.” He hesitated. “I’m only telling you about this now because I think someone from the group leaked information . . . and it turned out to be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? How?”
“I suspect that Dr. Lyon was close to the truth—too close.” His eyes bore into hers. “But his was just a theory, right?”
“Right.”
“Right and wrong.” Lucas shoved his hands in his pockets with a shrug. “The Ubar theory may have rattled some nerves, but no one would kill over it. Unless . . .”
“What?” she prompted. An odd look came into his eyes, and she felt a slight chill spread along her arms and back.
“Have you ever read the Bible, Jade?”
“Uh, most of it, I think,” she said.
“Dr. Lyon told me he’d read the Bible several times in the last year. It seemed he was looking for something—something more than just Solomon’s songs to the queen of the South.” Lucas offered a plaintive smile. “No matter. Perhaps Dr. Lyon sensed he was near the end of his life.”
Jade wasn’t convinced, and she knew Lucas didn’t believe that Dr. Lyon had suddenly found religion either. She’d read that some historians believed the Songs of Solomon in the Bible were written by Solomon about his love for the queen of the South. Others didn’t think the songs were written by Solomon at all. Whatever the queen was called—the queen of the South, or of Sheba—Jade thought that Dr. Lyon had turned his attention so carefully to a few chapters in the Bible to look for elusive connections to the queen’s life and death.
Lucas placed his hands on her shoulders. “Our association with Dr. Lyon may put us both at risk, mademoiselle.”
Jade swallowed against the dryness in her throat.
“Don’t trust anybody,” he said in a low voice.
One part of her wondered if she should trust him.
He removed his hands and checked his watch. “I’m expecting a fax at the museum office, if you’ll excuse me. Then we need to get out of here.”
Jade was about to ask where they needed to go, but he turned and hurried away. She twisted her ring—it was bronze. Restless. She continued looking through the artifacts, stopping to read the accompanying information and periodically jotting down notes, her mind on the man who’d just left.
She moved through the rest of the museum until she couldn’t focus anymore. What is taking him so long? The museum opened, and a few tourists wandered in through the front entrance. She exited through the side door and stepped into a courtyard, making her way to the offices on the north side of the building. Nearby, a train blared past, its tan color almost white in the morning sun. The passengers, mostly men, leaned out of the windows, and a few even rode on the top of the cars.
Just as she reached the first office, Lucas surged out of the door.
He barely looked at her as he thrust keys into her hands. “Drive the car around back,” he practically growled.
Jade opened her mouth, then shut it again, noticing the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. Turning on her heel, she strode away, nodding to another group of tourists as they exited from a taxicab. She tossed her backpack in the rear seat of Lucas’s car and climbed in. She turned on the ignition as a dozen possibilities entered her mind. Perhaps one of their interviews had been canceled, or maybe DiscoveryArch was still arguing about Ubar. Did he find out something more about Dr. Lyon? She drifted into the light traffic, receiving only one honk for her invasion.
Moments later, navigating the narrow, rubbish-strewn alley, Jade pulled behind the museum, where Lucas paced along the wall. On the ground sat a computer and two boxes. She slowed to a stop, and he popped the trunk and loaded the supplies. She watched his jerky movements in the rearview mirror. He’s definitely upset.
She climbed out of the car as he slammed the trunk. “What’s going on?”
Lucas jumped into the passenger seat. “Turn around and take a right at the end of the alley.”
“Aren’t you driving?” Jade asked, knowing how poorly she’d fare on the maniacal Cairo streets.
With a brief shake of his head, he swore under his breath. He started fiddling with the radio, hitting the dash when only static came through. Giving up, he turned off the radio.
Jade drove to the corner and stopped, waiting for a donkey cart to pass.
“Start pulling out,” Lucas said. “Someone will let you in.”
Inching her way into the oncoming lane, she waited for the right opportunity.
“Now!”
Jade stepped on the accelerator. One car had slowed, but it hadn’t seemed enough. She sailed into the flowing traffic and gripped the wheel with both hands. “Where now?”
“Right at the next intersection. Then keep it straight.”
A couple of miles down the next road, the traffic started to thin, and the apartment buildings grew less dense. Since Lucas stared blankly out the window, Jade hoped his temper had cooled. “Luc, I don’t like this. At least tell me where we’re going.”
Lucas rubbed his temple as he scrunched his face. Then he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “This came from a fax number somewhere in Israel.” He tossed it onto her lap.
Jade looked at it, trying to decipher the words as she drove.
Say good-bye to the tomb in Jerusalem. You’ll soon be joining Lyon in hortum.
“ ‘Hortum’ . . . Latin for ‘garden’?”
Lucas snatched the piece of paper. “Correct.” He turned on the radio again. This time the static had cleared. The announcer spoke rapidly in Arabic, obviously excited about something important.
A minute later, Lucas turned down the volume. “Someone just bombed the tomb in Jerusalem.”
“The one Dr. Lyon told you about?”
“Very few people knew what evidence had been found in the tomb. One of them was the Coptic patriarch. We need to meet with him as soon as possible.” His brows pulled together. “Whoever murdered Dr. Lyon must have bombed the tomb.”
After a deafening pause, Jade asked, “And they sent you a fax?” Fear pounded through her chest.
“At first I thought the message was a play on words. Lyon is dead, in heaven, or buried, in the garden—if you can consider a cemetery a garden of grass. But now I think ‘garden’ means something other than a graveyard.”
“Like what?”
“Like the most famous garden in history.”
It took her a second. “The Garden of Eden?”
“Yes.” He wadded the paper and tossed it at the windshield, where it fell against the dash.
Jade thought hard. Biblical scholars placed the Garden of Eden in Iraq, though there were other famous gardens and oases throughout history. Her mind listed them as she recalled her history studies, but nothing stood out. As she continued driving, the balled paper kept sliding along the dash, baking in the sunlight.
When they reached the outskirts of the city, Lucas said, “Just follow the 0-1 to Alexandria. It’s about three hours.”
“We’re going to see the patriarch today?”
He nodded but kept his head turned toward the window, seemingly staring at nothing. Mysterious and moody. Jade gripped the steering wheel, trying to disperse the annoying commentary that kept popping into her mind.
Her neck ached, and she realized she was clenching her teeth and tensing her shoulders. Relax. Letting out a breath of air, Jade tried to settle in for the long drive, doing her best to ignore the way Luc’s perfectly sculpted hands rested on his still-crisp pants. Strong, capable hands.
&nbs
p; The minutes passed as they sped by the towns and farmlands. Lucas’s breathing suddenly deepened, and a quick look told her he’d fallen asleep. Jade’s shirt was cemented to the leather seat, the perspiration from driving all afternoon long dried. A monastery in Alexandria. That’s where they were heading. To see the Coptic patriarch who lived in exile away from his own people—a man who had nearly been assassinated just a couple of weeks before.
When she’d been driving almost three hours, she said, “Lucas?”
He opened his eyes a slit, and then he checked his watch. Shifting in his seat, he exhaled a huge yawn. “Needed that nap.” He glanced at her. “Thanks.”
Jade nodded, feeling her own eyes sting with exhaustion. An upcoming road sign announced the town of Al Bayḍā’. “How close are we?”
He studied the road for a moment. “Not much farther. We can switch driving here.”
Jade slowed down then stopped, and soon they were on their way again, with Lucas driving.
Moments later Lucas’s satellite phone rang, and with one hand, he answered it. “Yes?” He threw a glance at Jade. “That’s unbelievable.” He paused. “Well, try harder.” He ended the call.
“What’s wrong?”
“The editor from Saudi Aramco World can’t find Lyon’s article submission on the queen of Sheba.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Why do you need it?”
“Because hours before the professor’s death, he sent me an e-mail about deciphering the writings on the wall of the Jerusalem tomb. He said he had written it all up and was doing a final read before sending it to Saudi Aramco—with information that would reveal new details about the location of the queen’s tomb. I asked him to e-mail me the draft, but I never heard from him again.”