Finding Sheba (Omar Zagouri Thriller Book 1)

by H. B. Moore

  “Omar.”

  He didn’t answer her but left to find the Yemeni, following the orange glow of a cigarette.

  When Omar reached him, the Yemeni held out a cigarette pack.

  “No thanks,” Omar said, though his mouth watered at the anticipation of nicotine. The combination of his ex and the desert made old vices tempting.

  “You look for the African?” the Yemeni asked.

  “Is he alive?”

  The man shrugged and then nervously looked behind him.

  “Did he leave here alive?” Omar pressed.

  A nod. The man inhaled the filtered toxins, then released the heady smoke through his parted lips. “The boss took him to another work site.”

  “Ah, I see.” Perspiration beaded on Omar’s forehead as he tried not to focus on the cigarette smoke. If he had to smell one more delicious plume, he’d be smoking again.

  “But he take only one.”

  The weight on Omar’s shoulders increased. Not only did this delay his assignment to find out if there was a connection between Rabbel, AWP, and the Yemen government, and if the assassination attempt on the Coptic Pope was ordered by Rabbel, but worry for Alem crept into Omar’s chest. It also meant spending more days and nights in this hellish climate, looking for an ant on the largest mound of sand in the world. He blew out a frustrated breath of air. Only one thing could cheer him up now, but she wasn’t cooperating.

  Thanking the man, he started back to the jeep when he heard a faint beeping. Omar slowed, trying to figure out where the sound had come from. He glanced at the Yemeni behind him, who was still smoking. Something wasn’t right. He continued toward the jeep . . . and Mia . . . and the argument they were about to have.

  She waited, rifle in hand, just as he’d instructed.

  “Good girl.”

  She scowled. “What did he say?”

  “Hang on.” Omar climbed in the jeep and revved the engine. He shifted the jeep into gear, headed away from the camp, and then turned west.

  Mia crossed her arms, her dark eyes glinting. Omar knew her patience would last only so long.

  After several minutes, he slowed the jeep and killed the engine. “That man is probably calling to report us on his satellite phone right now.”

  Mia shifted in her seat and grabbed her backpack. Pulling out her phone, she began to dial. Omar’s hand shot out and snatched it from her.

  “Hey. What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Who was the Yemeni calling?” He narrowed his eyes.

  Mia stared back, unblinking. “Well, he’s not one of us, so that leaves only one option. He’s connected with AWP, and he’s about to rat out our location.”

  Omar turned over the phone and slid the battery out.

  “You’re completely mad!” She grabbed for the phone, but Omar held it out of reach.

  “What if he is one of our agents?” he said.

  “Levy would have—”

  “I trust a band of blood-crazed Arabs with AK-47s more than I trust Levy. I only listen to him because he’s my boss.” He tossed the phone into her lap. “Turn it on, and you’ll walk.”

  “Fine. I don’t need an invitation.” She picked up her backpack and climbed out of the jeep.

  Omar watched her leave—walking alone—through the dark desert. He leaped out of the jeep and jogged to her. By the time he reached Mia, she stood with her arms folded, back to him.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  She whirled on him. “Can’t you just forget?”

  He was surprised to see her eyes wet. Had Mia—the toughest woman on the planet—been crying?

  “I tried.” Now that he started, there was no turning back. “I drank for two weeks straight, trying to forget.” He wanted so badly to erase the hurt on her face—the hurt that he’d put there. “Then I just existed. I tried to quit the job over and over, but I didn’t have the heart to give up seeing you completely.”

  Her eyes softened. “You kept your job so you could see me?”

  “It worked, didn’t it? Here you are. Here I am, seeing you.”

  Mia stared at him for a long moment, then dropped her gaze. “It’s no use. We can’t ever change what’s happened, and I don’t think I want to anyway.”

  “What did happen?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Come on. You left me. Don’t I deserve any explanation?”

  Mia sighed. “You’ll only hear what you want to hear. You always have. It doesn’t matter what I say or what anyone else says. You believe the world runs according to your perception.”

  Omar stiffened. This was an old argument, and the warmth of anger renewed itself in his chest. “You didn’t deny sleeping with Levy.”

  Mia’s expression darkened. “You never listened back then, and you still don’t. I should never have to answer that question. And if you really want to know why I left you, it was because you did ask that question.” She turned away.

  “I had to ask. If it didn’t happen, why wouldn’t you tell me in the first place?” he asked.

  “Because,” Mia said, spinning around. Tears coursed along her cheeks. “If you think sex with another man was the only thing that could take me from you, then that’s the only thing we had between us.”

  She fled, running toward the jeep.

  Mia never cries. The fact that she’s crying now means I was wrong. So wrong. And I just wasted four months trying to prove otherwise.

  He hurried after her. Mia sat in the jeep, staring at her hands, her dark curls plastered to the sides of her wet face. He climbed in the driver’s seat, wanting to explain, turn back time . . . “Levy was out to get me from the beginning. First he reassigned my long-term projects, then he buried me under pointless paperwork. And finally, he went straight for my heart by going after you. In fact, the last time I reported in, he said—”

  “I don’t care anymore.” Mia’s tone was flat. “Just shut up and drive.”

  He started the engine, swearing under his breath. He drove too fast at first, ignoring how easy it would be to get lost. When his heart rate slowed, he reduced their speed and glanced at Mia. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she was far from asleep.

  According to the GPS on his satellite phone, the Yemen-Oman border was very close. Mia lifted her head as he studied the GPS. “Don’t be stupid,” she said.

  “Too late for that.” Omar met her gaze, but she looked away. “But as for the border crossing, I have an idea. Since we’re out of money, we’ll be taking the feral desert detour.”

  No argument from Mia. One point for me. But there was no satisfaction. At all.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Red Sea

  960 BC

  Nicaula gazed at the coastal town of Eloth that spread along the shores of the Red Sea. Its ivory buildings shimmered alabaster in the morning sun, and a fleet of towering ships was anchored near the shoreline. The town was known for its shipbuilding, yet Nicaula was surprised to see the piers silent. Then she remembered. It was the seventh day for the Hebrew people—just as the young boy had told her. No work occurred on this holy day.

  Just as well. Her caravan had traveled all night to avoid the harsh desert clime, and they were ready for rest. After the sun set, they would approach the fabled crossroads and purchase fresh fruit and legumes.

  Nearby, Batal sat on his horse, studying the town below. Nicaula wondered at his thoughts; he’d kept silent in the weeks since the locust swarm. Oftentimes she wished to tell him her true feelings without regard for protocol or consequence, but her sense of duty held her back. If there was one thing her father told her must come first, it was duty—both a burden and blessing for a queen. And her continued dreams about the king of Jerusalem had to mean something.

  Nicaula raised her hand. “We will rest here until the Hebrews�
� religious day is over.” Azhara and several others unloaded the camels.

  Batal approached her and bowed. “Some of the men would like to celebrate as the Hebrews do.”

  Nicaula studied him for a moment. David had told them about the customs and celebrations. And since the locust storm, she’d noticed that fewer of her soldiers worshipped the nature gods, turning to Yahweh instead. She hadn’t felt compelled to stop them. What if it was Yahweh who had protected them from the locusts? “You may worship as you please.”

  Batal thanked her and turned away.

  Having traveled for a few months, establishing camp had become routine, and a short time later, Nicaula settled in her tent and enjoyed boiled barley, fresh camel’s milk, and cooked ibex. Following the meal, she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

  It was the odd light that woke her hours later. Lethargic and damp with perspiration, Nicaula rose and took a goatskin, drinking her fill of stale water. Then she trickled water along her head and shoulders. Feeling refreshed, she walked out of the tent, and Azhara rushed over and bowed. “Everyone wants to visit Eloth as soon as the sun sets.”

  A faint smile crept to her lips. “All right. We’ll begin the trek when the sun touches the horizon.”

  On the second day in Eloth, Nicaula sent a group of soldiers and several women servants—including Azhara—ahead to Jerusalem. They would prepare the king to receive the queen of the South.

  Without her ever-present maidservant, Nicaula felt even more vulnerable around Batal. She tried to avoid him and ventured from her tent only when he was on one errand or another. But it proved impossible. Every hour, she felt drawn to him more and more. Even worse, she had started second-guessing everything her father had taught her, and when Batal was near or inadvertently touched her, she found her pulse racing. She could not sleep at night, tossing on her mat. It would only take one command and he would be at her side, holding her in his arms, taking her to a place she had never been.

  But she gripped her hands together and squeezed her eyes shut against the restless obsession. I am being foolish. Yet even as she tried to deny it, she knew she was in love with Batal. A soldier. The commander of her army. A man who had not a piece of gold to his name that did not come from her. Her heart was on its way to breaking.

  At night she watched him. With the maidservants asleep before the moon sat high in the sky, Nicaula crept to the tent opening and moved the flap just enough so she could see him sitting around the fire with the men. He did not have any tales of women or adventure to share as they did, but Nicaula listened to his every word. Yes, he laughed with the others and drank with them, but he also held a quiet air of authority. He seemed to be a man beyond his years, serious, intent.

  The third night in Eloth, Nicaula dreamt of the king of Jerusalem. She saw him from behind, his broad shoulders, his skill upon the Arabian stallion, and the haughty toss of his head. When he turned the animal around to face her, he smiled, his lips full, eyes wide set. Batal? Nicaula walked toward him, slowly at first, and then she ran. When she reached the horse, she looked up and saw his face changing. It narrowed, and his eyes grew darker. She tried to call to the king, reach him. But the horse shied from her, and the man said, “You have betrayed me, O Queen of the South.”

  Nicaula woke to darkness surrounding her, finding the night still deep. Her clothing was damp from perspiration, and she tried to relax her breathing so as not to disturb the maidservants who slept in the next section of the tent.

  Her stomach tightened into a sickening feeling as she remembered her thoughts of betrayal. “Forgive me, O King. I have let my heart wander.” She sat up and pulled her knees against her chest as hot tears burned her eyes and splashed against her cheeks. She had betrayed her visions of the king. Her infatuation with Batal must end tonight.

  She crept out of the tent and walked toward the doused fire. Several men slept around the dark, smoldering pit, their breathing heavy with wine. It took only a moment to find where Batal lay on his side a short distance from the others. His features were peaceful, perfect, in the light of the moon. And even though the night was cool, warmth seemed to radiate from him. She knelt beside him, her heart thudding.

  She ached with desire as she watched his even breathing expand his chest. She wanted to touch him . . . but the image of the king’s disapproving face rose in her mind. She had come to say good-bye. She bent over Batal and inhaled his musky fragrance. Her face hovered next to his, her lips almost close enough to touch him.

  Her willpower weakened. She was queen, after all, and she could marry whomever she chose. Batal was a good man and would not mistreat her or go against her wishes. The passion of their love would be worth sharing her reign.

  She pulled away, seeing his face fully illuminated in the moonlight. Then suddenly, his eyes opened. Nicaula’s heart nearly stopped. His gaze went from surprise to understanding.

  Nicaula’s pulse drummed madly. He knew why she was there. She could see the desire in his eyes—so palpable that there was no doubt. He touched her shoulder. She breathed in sharply—it was as if she had been touched by fire.

  “Nicaula,” he whispered as his hand moved along her arm.

  Her body trembled, responding to his touch. His hand continued its journey to her waist, her hips, her thigh. She could not breathe. She could not move.

  He rose to a sitting position until their faces were level. His hand cupped her chin, his breath warm and sweet upon her lips. She let her eyes close as she inhaled his fragrance. She ached to touch him, to cling to him and never let go.

  His lips touched hers, and a shudder passed through her entire being. He kissed her slowly, his mouth taking control, and for once, she was his servant. Her body seemed to melt with his, transcending, floating above the earth. Her hands moved behind his neck, and she pulled him closer, feeling his arms tighten about her. Their hearts seemed to beat the same thudding race.

  “Nicaula,” he whispered, the name sweet on his lips. And then they were kissing again, but this time Batal’s mouth became urgent. His hands moved up her back, tangling in her hair, and she arched against him. At any moment someone could wake and see them, but Nicaula did not care. Kissing Batal was like the sweetest potion—one that she would never stop craving.

  Then the image of an Arabian flashed through her mind, and the man on the horse turned, angry, scowling. His face was narrow, his hair—tight copper curls. The king.

  Nicaula’s thoughts collided. What was she doing? She pulled away from Batal. “I am sorry,” she whispered.

  The confusion in his eyes twisted her heart, and she tried to smile but could not. She touched his face, and he leaned forward again, taking it as an invitation. “I have come to say good-bye,” she said, wondering how one kiss could have already broken her heart. “You must forget me, dear Batal. I cannot marry you.”

  He caught her wrist, determination in his eyes. “In time—”

  “You must forget me and find someone you can love.”

  “I can love only you.”

  “You are young, you are handsome . . .” Her voice caught as his hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer.

  Batal whispered in her ear, “I will never say good-bye. I will always be waiting for you. Even if I die, I will wait in paradise.”

  “I give you permission to break that promise.” Tears burned against her eyes as she drew away and stood. “I did not mean for this to happen. Forgive me.”

  He rose to his feet and grasped her hands. “One kiss from you is better than a thousand nights with another woman.”

  Sorrow consumed her body. She tugged her hands away from his, took a step backward, and raised her hand to her heart. “Good-bye.”

  She felt Batal watch her leave but knew she had made the right choice. In no time, he would find a wife, someone to keep him warm at night and dispel all thoughts of her.

  Once inside the
tent, Nicaula lit a fish-oil lamp, the glow barely illuminating one end of the tent. In the corner stood a small statue of the goddess `Ashtartu. Nicaula was grateful that the maidservants slept deeply in the next section while she collected a bowl of water, her dagger, and the lamp and set all three items at the goddess’s feet. Nicaula removed all her clothing, and except for her ring and necklace, she stood naked in the flickering light. Her skin prickled at the exposure to the air as she knelt on the rug and bowed to the statue.

  “Cleanse me of my lust,” she prayed. “Remove the seed of my desire, O goddess of fertility.” She picked up the dagger and cut off a lock of her hair. Then she put it into the bowl of water and watched the black strands float. “Remind me of my duty—that my mind will rule my heart.” She brought the dagger to the center spot between her breasts and pricked her skin. She inhaled sharply and bit her lip to keep from crying out as a rivulet of blood ran down, pooling at her navel.

  She touched the bowl to her lower stomach and let the blood drop into the water. The dark crimson mixed with the hair and stained the water. “With my body and my blood, I make this oath of virginity. No man will rule my heart. Only the gods of the heavens are greater than me.”

  The blood flow ebbed, and Nicaula lowered the bowl. Then she removed her ring and necklace and dipped them into the water. “I sanctify this jewelry, and it will become a symbol of my new pledge.” She replaced the dripping jewelry on her finger and around her neck. Then she lifted a corner of the rug, dug a shallow hole, and poured the contents of the bowl into the sandy earth. “This holy spot marks the birth of my new soul.” She raked sand over the hole and replaced the rug.

  Silently she dressed, leaving the stain of blood along her torso to remind her of her promise. The goddess `Ashtartu was her witness, and the earth was the keeper of her oath.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Yemen

  I’m engaged to Lucas. The thought drifted lazily through Jade’s mind as she tried to imagine what it would be like to travel to France with him, to be introduced to his friends and family, to sleep by him every night . . . The sun must be affecting me. Technically, they were just pretending to be engaged, though. Lucas had told her it was the only way to keep their Yemeni escort, Ismail, from becoming interested in her. Her dreamlike state completely dissipated when the jeep they were riding in hit a large pothole. The Kalashnikov rifle that Lucas had insisted she keep strapped on jarred into her hip. She straightened and tugged her perspiration-soaked shirt from the seat.