Finding Sheba (Omar Zagouri Thriller Book 1)

by H. B. Moore

  Oh, Jade mouthed. She thought about the press release she’d read on the professor’s death. There weren’t any details disclosed. A stroke or heart attack was suspected. She wondered if there’d been an investigation or if his office was searched. Maybe his article was still on his computer. Without realizing it, she started twisting the ring on her finger. Lucas placed a hand over hers.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Uh, yes,” Jade said, relieved and disappointed at the same time when he removed his hand. She was probably getting on his nerves. “Sorry.”

  When he didn’t respond, she felt even more embarrassed. She wasn’t used to just sitting, and she had nothing to read. I can’t afford to notice the definition of his forearms as he drives.

  “The patriarch is not an ordinary ecclesiastical leader,” he eventually said.

  Not that she knew any ecclesiastical leaders personally, but Jade was curious. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a former professor of the University of Alexandria. Years ago, he left the professional life for the ecclesiastical. You could say he has a deep interest in ancient tombs. He’s the one who began DiscoveryArch.” His eyes flickered with excitement. “He’s also one of the most brilliant scholars I know . . . next to Lyon, of course.”

  “Maybe he’s seen Dr. Lyon’s article.”

  “Maybe.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Lucas left the main road and drove along a furrowed lane framed by date palms. The late-afternoon sun couldn’t penetrate the healthy shade, and Jade leaned back in her seat, relishing the cool wind from the nearby sea riffling through her hair. According to the map, they were on the outskirts of Alexandria, which bordered the Mediterranean.

  Lucas took a sideways glance at her. “You might want to do something with your hair.”

  Jade’s face heated, and she turned to him, ready to argue.

  “We’re meeting a pope, Jade.”

  Chagrined, Jade unzipped her backpack and located her hairbrush. “If you didn’t insist on having the windows down . . .” she muttered as she took the brush and stubbornly yanked it through her windblown hair.

  “It doesn’t bother me personally, you know,” Lucas said.

  Surprised at the softness in his tone, she wondered if he liked his women a little on the natural side, since he didn’t seem the kind to put up with the high-maintenance type. And the way he had said her name—with that French accent. Stop. He says everything with an accent. She smoothed her hair behind her ears and found some lip gloss in her backpack.

  Seconds later, Lucas pulled up in front of a large gate, and a burly guard approached them. Other security guards were stationed at lookout posts along the high walls surrounding the compound. After the guard checked both their IDs, he ordered them out of the car and conducted a quick weapons search. Jade climbed back into the car and turned to Lucas. “Wow.”

  “I didn’t want to scare you, but since the level of security speaks for itself . . . this is due to the assassination attempt.”

  “Wasn’t it around the same time Dr. Lyon died?”

  “The day before. I want to find out the last time the patriarch was in contact with Dr. Lyon.”

  At the end of the long driveway was a low building—what seemed to be another guard post. A man wearing a military uniform came out and directed them to a courtyard, where they parked.

  The guard and Lucas exchanged a few words, and then the guard left.

  “It might be a while,” Lucas said.

  Jade got out of the car and wandered around the desert garden, inspecting the low shrubs and cactus-like plants while Lucas perched on a stone wall beneath the shade of a palm, watching her. She tried to ignore his stare, but when she was bold enough to glance at him, it seemed his eyes were half-closed. He’s not really watching me.

  At least thirty minutes passed, and Jade worried they’d be denied an audience. On the drive, Lucas had explained how important it was to get the patriarch’s sanction for their research project. He’d told her the Copts had more developed knowledge on the queen of Sheba than perhaps any other religious group. “Until the 1950s, Coptic bishops from Alexandria had served as the patriarch of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. And although today the Ethiopian Orthodox are self-governing, they still share the same faith with the Copts.”

  “Monsieur Morel?” a voice sounded from the far side of the court.

  Lucas moved to his feet and motioned for Jade to join him.

  A man wearing a tan uniform and black beret bowed before them. “His Holiness, Pope Stephanus II, will receive you now.”

  Jade followed the men into the cool interior. They walked down a short hallway and then stopped in another courtyard with a roof extended overhead, giving the feeling of being inside. At a table sat a man in his early sixties. His embroidered robes and rounded hat made his office clear. Lucas strode forward, then bowed his head in acknowledgment.

  After greeting Lucas, the patriarch extended his broad hand toward Jade, and she took it. “Welcome. Please, will you have some tea?” His face was weathered in a gentle way, as if his days had been spent poring over the philosophies of man. Splays of graying hair curled beneath his cap line.

  “Thank you,” Lucas said.

  “I’d prefer water or a soda . . . if that’s all right,” Jade said.

  The patriarch waved his hand, sending his servant scurrying away.

  The men exchanged pleasantries while Jade took in her surroundings. The tiled floors were magnificent, the likes of which she’d seen only in photographs. Marble columns extended from floor to ceiling, and live palms dotted the spacious room.

  After the drinks were served, the conversation began. Almost without taking a breath, Lucas relayed the news about the bombing of the tomb.

  The patriarch raised his hand, stopping Lucas midsentence. “Yes, a serious misfortune to the archaeological world. It will take months to piece together the remnants.”

  “Dr. Lyon was writing an article about evidence inside that tomb, but it was never sent out,” Lucas said.

  “Yes, my people take a unique interest in the theories of Dr. Lyon. If the queen’s remains can be found in neutral territory, such as Southern Arabia, our political standing will be strengthened. Disputes between my people and the Ethiopian clerics in Israel will cease. Our interpretation of the ancient biblical text will be validated. But we will accept what comes—even if it’s in Ethiopia.” The patriarch paused, taking a sip of the steaming tea. He leaned forward. “There has been another discovery—something that may offset our losses from the Jerusalem tomb.”

  Jade felt the skin along her neck tingle. A real archaeological discovery had just been made?

  “A statue has been excavated in Aksum, Ethiopia.” The patriarch’s eyes danced with Christmas-morning pleasure. “It’s a sculpture of a queen. The style and form date to about 950 BC. There’s an inscription at the base of the statue with the name of a woman.”

  “What is it?” Jade burst out.

  “That’s what you’re going to find out,” the patriarch said. “A flight from Alexandria will leave tonight. You’ll arrive in Addis Ababa around two a.m., where everything has been arranged for your convenience.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  The Empty Quarter, Yemen

  The waning moon combined with the dim headlights to provide just enough light to guide Alem along the rutted road. He gripped the metal wheel as unrelenting potholes grated his joints, coupled with the pressure against his ribs from the barrel of the gun. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out the gears and get the convoy moving at top speed. The gas gauge now hovered just above empty. They had already gone through the two five-gallon cans of gasoline kept in the back. Glancing at his crew boss, Alem was surprised to see the man half-asleep, but he knew better than to be fooled into thinking he could catch Rabbel off guard. The man cou
ld probably sleep standing up and not miss a thing.

  In the past couple of hours, Alem had deduced enough Arabic to understand that the boss had killed his assistant over a disagreement of direction—northeast or northwest? The argument about a map had led to the man’s death. And now they were heading northeast, the apparent “right” direction. In the near distance, Alem saw the familiar shape of a toll building.

  “We stop here for gasoline,” the boss said.

  A young Arab, not more than sixteen, exited the toll building holding a rifle. Barefoot and wearing a too-big blazer over a long tunic, he jogged to the lead truck and poked his head in the window. He grinned at Alem, qat on his breath. “Fifty riyal.”

  Rabbel said, “Forty.”

  “Fifty.” The boy drew back from the window and whistled. Three other teenage boys appeared, each armed with a Kalashnikov.

  Rabbel fiddled with the fanny pack strapped about his waist, keeping the gun propped against his knees. Counting the money, the boss grumbled in Arabic. Alem kept motionless as the bills changed hands.

  Five minutes later, the caravan of trucks pressed forward. Alem felt he was better off than an hour ago—no one else had been shot, and everyone’s bladders were relieved. With a pang, he wished he could be in the back of the truck. At least then he could catch some sleep.

  Rabbel relaxed his grip on the shotgun and even propped it against the passenger door. He noticed Alem’s glance. “No place to run or hide out here.”

  Alem stared into the scattering darkness. It was nearly dawn, and the neighboring shapes slowly took form. Dunes, many thirty meters high, towered above the truck. So this is the Empty Quarter. The infamous stretch of sand—legendary for its ruthlessness. At the university, he had read the accounts of Bertram Thomas and Wilfred Thesiger, the first white explorers to cross the desert and live to tell about it. The temperature of the sand was extreme, either very hot in the summer or very cold in the winter. The highest dune was over three hundred meters high, and the desert covered 650,000 square kilometers and was completely inhabitable.

  There was no animal or plant in sight, and as the hot wind came through the open window, it was clear that any semblance of moisture in the air was missing. Thesiger had said the ancient wells that skirted the Empty Quarter contained water that was too bitter for even a camel to drink. But as the sun’s rays tipped the dunes, the colors of the dunes burst into life, contrasting gold and silver, brown and pink, and orange and ivory. Beautiful and terrifying.

  And when we find the queen, we’ll all be executed. The words of the Arab resounded in his mind. Alem gripped the grooves of the steering wheel. “Are we looking for Bilqis?”

  “What do you know of the queen?”

  “Only what my country believes.”

  “Ah. Your people claim her as their own.” Rabbel chuckled. “We’ll soon prove the Africans wrong. The queen of Sheba was born in Arabia. She ruled here and died here.”

  Indeed, Alem thought as he kept his gaze forward. The noble heritage of his ancestors would be cruelly trampled if anyone could prove the queen’s reign began and ended in Arabia.

  “When we find her bones,” Rabbel said, “the world will be forced to recognize the truth. The city of her burial will become the new Mecca. Jews and Christians and Muslims will flock to southern Arabia—bringing us prosperity and many, many tourism dollars.”

  But at what cost? And when we find her, will we all be executed?

  The truck crested a ridge, and the sun burst over the horizon, throwing its sphere of light across the golden sand. Rabbel pointed to a dry wadi that ran perpendicular to the road. “This is it.”

  Alem slowed the truck, staring at the emptiness—only a few scrub brushes, a sparse mangrove, and an abandoned wooden structure designated the site. On the north side of the road, the sand multiplied until it formed a dune. They were at the edge of the Empty Quarter.

  Alem climbed out of the truck and got to work with the other men. If he had grumbled about the last site or the terror of the ride through the desert, he had yet to understand real misery. The temperature was hellish, and by midday, it was forty-eight degrees Celsius.

  He would do anything to feel a drop of rain—a large, cool drop. The thin clothing he wore was thoroughly soaked with perspiration. Even the tops of his ebony hands glistened with beaded sweat. He lifted his shovel again and plunged it into the dry wadi, turning over a shovelful of silt.

  Alem gazed up at the rising slope of Al Mahrah Plateau. Little vegetation could be seen from this angle, but the Yemenis had assured him of the grasses and flowers that grew there in the winter season. It seemed almost impossible that a place as desolate as this harbored any sort of greenery.

  Walking along the bed, Alem kicked his foot against loose rock and sand. Would this foolish search for the queen’s tomb ever produce anything of significance? He surveyed the desolation. Who would want to live here anyway? It was hard to imagine that any of the miles of dunes they had passed could have ever supported a kingdom or even a single palace.

  Alem shoveled the parched earth. Around him, the Yemeni workers had settled into a rhythm. Periodically, Rabbel shouted a command.

  Alem’s shovel struck a rock, and he stooped to lift it. It was rough, maybe limestone. He knew that along the coast of Yemen and Oman, limestone cliffs towered at least one thousand meters in height. Odd it should appear this far north. Then he thrust his shovel into the earth again, and another rock stopped his progress. Shaking his head, Alem pulled the offending stone from its place. Just as he was about to toss it aside, he paused. It was metal. He glanced behind him and saw Rabbel at the other end of the wadi.

  Alem turned the piece over, then rubbed it against his shirt. The tarnished metal was dull in the stark sunlight, obviously a handle of some sort. Alem licked his thumb and rubbed off some of the crusted sand. He drew in a breath. It looked like the hilt of a sword.

  Alem rubbed along the length of the handle until an intricate design appeared. It was a snake intertwined with a plant or flower. Something about it was familiar, and Alem squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Maybe it was a tribal emblem on a flag from one of the villages they had passed. Then a feeling of disquiet settled over him. He remembered. He had seen this symbol before . . . etched on his grandmother’s headstone.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Yemen

  The buzzing grew closer until Omar felt as if the fly had actually entered his ear. He shook his head wildly against the annoying insect, wincing with pain in the process. Still, he didn’t open his eyes. One was swollen shut, the other too tired, and the returning itch of his mustache only compounded the discomfort. Since his hands were tied behind his back, he rubbed his cheek against the straw-filled mattress. The friction relieved the itch, but at the same time aggravated his injured face.

  He didn’t remember anything much until he awakened in this cramped place—a former storage room, as evidenced by the scavenging rats that had run across his feet during the night. How long have I been in this room? An hour? A day?

  After spending the night in a small hospice several kilometers from the work site, Omar had returned to find his former crew gone. Not that he was surprised, knowing that the glorified grave robbers wouldn’t stay in one place for long. But he needed to finish gathering information on the crew boss, Rabbel.

  At the abandoned site, Omar had made his way back to the tree Alem had placed him under. After a cursory search for his missing bag, he sank to his hands and knees and began to search more thoroughly. He ran his fingers through the stiff desert grass, finding nothing. If his ID badges fell into the wrong hands, it wouldn’t take long for someone to figure out his real purpose in Yemen.

  He could be jailed, exported, or worse.

  Omar hadn’t heard anyone approach, but his throbbing head was a reminder of the painful blow he’d received. His next memory had bee
n waking up in this dark place, and now, stuck in the storage room, he still felt the pulsing pain in the back of his head. It was a perfect way to end a long week of working himself nearly to death, not being able to make any contact with his ex-girlfriend, Mia, and being captured by a bunch of no-name insurgents.

  Omar had been close to infiltrating Rabbel’s confidence. The man had admitted three things so far: they were searching for the queen’s tomb, they had been sending any relevant findings to the National Museum of Yemen in San’ā, and their expedition was privately funded. This told Omar that the Yemen government wasn’t sponsoring the trip, which probably meant that Rabbel’s group was operating illegally.

  The Israeli government was also convinced that Rabbel was behind an assassination attempt on the pope of the Coptic Church. This pope apparently had information about the queen of Sheba’s tomb that Rabbel’s group wanted to desperately contain. So why try to kill the guy? Couldn’t anything be purchased for the right price?

  Omar suspected that Rabbel was linked to an organization called Ancient World Piracy, AWP, which was just a fancy title for modern-day scavengers—or, more accurately, thieves. International bylaws mandated that any ancient ruin or artifact discovered was the property of said nation, even if the finding was made on private land.

  The black market was glutted with stolen artifacts, some of which Omar had been able to track down—the starving Buddha statue in Pakistan, an ancient Peruvian burial shroud, a rare chert tool that was ten thousand years old. When David Levy had sent Omar to Yemen to join an excavation crew, Omar was quite intrigued, until he was kidnapped. A minor detour.

  It was imperative for Omar to find out if there was bribery between Rabbel, AWP, and the Yemen government, then pin Rabbel for the assassination attempt. Killing two birds with one stone, my specialty. Israel would love to be recognized for saving a Christian pope’s life and, as a bonus, hold an entire country responsible. Even better, all of Europe and America would be grateful, and the free weapons and military power would just keep coming in.