Finding Sheba (Omar Zagouri Thriller Book 1)

by H. B. Moore

  Azhara lowered her head and said in a soft voice, “An army is being formed to make an advance on Jerusalem.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Tambariah—”

  “A great commander would tell a female slave his plans? Impossible. Did you trick him?” Azhara avoided her gaze. Then Nicaula knew. “You shared his bed, did you not?”

  Azhara buried her face in her hands.

  The queen stood and paced the room. “I must deliver this news to the king immediately.” She whirled around and faced the servant. “Do you not see? You have become a traitor by not revealing this information right away.”

  “But I have only just arrived in the city—”

  “How long have you known about the plot?”

  Azhara wiped the tears streaming down her face. “A few days.”

  “You could be put to death for this.”

  Azhara began to tremble, shaking her head. “But if I tell the king, Tambariah will surely be killed.”

  “Yes, he will.” Nicaula started to pace again, thinking. Just a short time ago, the king had accused her of treason. He was not going to take this news of Tambariah well. She stopped and eyed her servant. “I have been accused of treason myself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have refused an offer of marriage from Solomon.” The queen brought a hand to her heart, realizing the impact. She would have to gather her people and leave as soon as possible. She did not know the reach of the king, but war was probable. “If I can relay the information about Tambariah’s advance, perhaps we will be restored into Solomon’s good faith again.”

  “I cannot.” Azhara fell to her knees. “Please. I cannot betray the one I love.”

  “You love this man more than your country . . . your queen . . . your own life? How can you give all that up for a man you have only known a few short weeks?” she asked. In her heart, she understood the burning infatuation, but if she had overcome it, so could a mere servant girl.

  Nicaula rose to her full height, angry at the ungrateful woman at her feet. “You have known me your entire life. I conquered a city to rescue you. Do not forget to whom you owe your very life.”

  Azhara sank to the floor and lay prostrate on the ground, sobbing. “I beg you not to reveal Tambariah’s plot, for I carry his child.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  San’ã, Yemen

  Stay away from the compound. Let Levy handle it, Omar typed. He had a general idea where AWP headquarters was located near Marib, but it was no place for a lone woman—even someone like Mia.

  A long pause.

  They don’t know who you are. Just do what Levy says.

  Mia, talk to me.

  The wait was torture. No matter how much they had loved, or hated, each other, he was still her friend, still her comrade in battle.

  Finally she replied. Where are you?

  The university library.

  Normally she would have questioned him and wanted to know why he was there. He waited as students entered in small groups, milling about, greeting each other. “Come on, sweetheart,” he muttered.

  No answer. The minutes ticked by, each one longer than the last. At last, she wrote, You’re in the library?

  Yes.

  Open my email account and find the one titled “UBAR.” Print off the PDF attachment. It contains information I intercepted from Rabbel.

  Omar went to the front desk and asked for the printer key. By the time he was back at the computer, Mia had sent the username and password. As he started the document printing, he scrolled through the pages. First he saw several satellite photos scanned into the PDF. At the bottom was the label—in Mia’s handwriting—Ubar.

  Ubar? Omar had read articles on the fabled city. But nothing significant had ever been uncovered to prove its existence, unless one counted stories handed down from generation to generation.

  He clicked to the next page and saw the same satellite photo, only with a tighter zoom. Shisur. The document finished printing, and Omar logged off the account. He returned the printer key and paid for the copies. Then he took the stack of papers and walked to a vacant aisle in the library, where he leaned against a bookcase and leafed through the pages.

  Inspecting the pictures more closely, he made out several trucks and signs of an excavation going on. When were these taken? He turned over another page and raised a brow. It was a picture of a dead man. It looked as if the elderly man was in his office chair with his head cocked back, mouth gaping, eyes open. There was no blood or vicious trauma evident. Below the picture of the dead man, Mia had scrawled, Dr. Richard Lyon, murdered.

  The professor. The vacant eyes in the photo repulsed Omar. Just below the man’s chair was something that looked like a white envelope with some words written across it. Omar turned the next page, his heart drumming. The scanned e-mail detailed the writing on the tomb walls that had been uncovered in northern Jerusalem. Omar sank to the floor, crossed his legs, and read every word. As he reviewed the dates, he knew that if this new genealogical chart proved authentic, there was no way Solomon could have ruled the same region as the three kings listed on the Jerusalem tomb walls. This might prove that Solomon never existed—or at the very least, he was never a king, which meant that King David wasn’t a king either. The Jews’ claim to the Holy Land would be found unsubstantiated.

  The next page nearly stopped his heart.

  The tomb had been bombed about the same time he’d been enjoying his kidnapping in a storage room. All that evidence, all those artifacts . . .

  He turned the page, feeling sick. The page was reminiscent of the crayon rubbings that children make of dinosaur fossils in a museum, though this rubbing appeared to be of charcoal, its image not exactly clear on the PDF. But it was clear enough.

  The cuneiform letters stood out, searing themselves into his brain—the ancient script familiar and haunting at once.

  Ancient Aramaic.

  But it was the first lines that stalled the breath in his throat. Translated it read, “O Queen of the South, / Death began your journey.”

  Omar read haltingly through the ode to the queen. Was it a poem? A legend? Across the top of the page, Mia had written: Mysterious Hebrew king—Tambariah—lover of the queen of Sheba?

  Omar turned the page upside down. Nothing appeared to be hidden, encrypted. A mysterious Hebrew king and an Arabian queen—lovers? Joined in marriage? Questions tumbled through his mind, each more fantastic than the next.

  Omar folded the pages in half, his head feeling as though it would burst. Here he sat in a university library, more than three thousand kilometers away from a city that might be changed forever with the knowledge contained in a single document that he held in his hand. And unfortunately, Rabbel also had the same information.

  He pulled out the sketch and stared at the center palm trunk—the snake and flower intertwined. Did they represent Tambariah and the queen? Eyes bleary with fatigue, he texted Mia. A couple of minutes later, her reply came.

  I’m almost there. Won’t be able to talk for a while. We’ll discuss the info later.

  Mia, stay out of the compound.

  I can’t. If it makes you feel better, I’m wearing a bulletproof vest.

  Don’t feel better at all.

  Looks like some trouble up ahead.

  Get out of there! Omar typed, then waited breathlessly. One minute passed. Then five. He paced, willing his phone to buzz.

  Hotel room 18. Check carpet. Important evidence.

  She’d been staying at a hotel near the National Museum. He pushed through the front doors, nearly sprinted across campus, and hailed a taxi.

  A message came in from Levy. Perfect timing, as always. Return to Salalah. The Ethiopian needs to be extradited to his country before AWP can get hold of him.

  I th
ought you had a security team in place, Omar typed.

  Hired guns. Not trustworthy like you. A flight leaves in two hours. Be on it.

  Sorry. Something’s gone wrong in Marib. Mia’s in trouble.

  I’m already on it. She’s taken care of.

  By whom?

  An operation is in the works right now. She’ll be out of there in no time.

  More hired guns? I thought they weren’t trustworthy. I’m going in, Levy. You can fire me if you want.

  It’s too risky to go alone. Even if you were the best we had, you’ll be killed before reaching the first outpost.

  Unfortunately for you, Levy, I AM the best you have.

  If you go in, you leave me no other choice.

  I said you can fire me if that makes you feel better.

  Nothing would make me happier than to do it in person.

  Come on down and join the party. Drinks are on me. Except you’ll have to get off your skinny ass and get on a plane.

  Done.

  The taxi jerked to a stop. He paid the driver and climbed out. The seedy hotel was squashed between two apartment buildings, the Arabic letters a faded blue against a bleached-white backdrop. Omar’s pulse raced with anger. He was going to hold Levy to his promise, just as he would keep his promise to find Mia. The hotel door swept open, and a man with wiry hair stepped out. Leaning against the crumbled plaster wall, the man lit up a cigarette.

  Omar nodded to the man as he passed by and entered the building to find the musty lobby empty. A couple of salvaged leather chairs stood near a table littered with yellowed newspapers. The subscription looked to have run out years before. Perhaps management held on to the papers to keep up appearances. A phone jangled on the service desk, its hollow ring going unanswered. Business must be too good to answer the phone.

  Then Omar realized that the man smoking out front was the employee. Sure enough, the door jangled again, and the man reentered. Omar greeted him and asked for a room. After paying, he requested room eighteen. The employee narrowed his haze-filled eyes—the man had been smoking something more than just nicotine.

  “My lucky number,” Omar said, placing more riyals on the counter.

  The employee grinned, displaying missing teeth, and took the bills, then handed him a key with handwritten on the dangling, orange tag. The employee motioned to the right, and Omar followed his directions down the long corridor.

  When Omar reached number eighteen, he unlocked the door, not knowing what to expect. What he saw exceeded even his wildest imagination. There was not one thing left untouched, overturned, or unopened. Even the pillows were slashed, the matted stuffing strewn about the bed. The faded green wallpaper had been stripped, and pieces of crusted glue littered the floor. The ancient television and its aluminum-wrapped antennas had been dissected.

  Omar waded through the rubbish and tugged open the drapes, letting the early sunlight pierce the chaos behind him. Under the carpet . . . under the carpet. He started in one corner and ran his hands along the carpet, feeling for any inconsistency. Then he stood and moved his hand along the curtain rod. It was then that he saw it. Spray painted above the window—between the drapes and the ceiling—was the message:

  VENITE, DILECTI FILII, EGREDEMINI IN HORTUM.

  Omar pulled out the PDF pages and scribbled the Latin words down.

  Hortum was “garden”—that he was sure of. And venite meant “come.” Come to the garden? It must be a pretty important garden. Then he paused. The Garden of Eden was theorized to exist in Iraq. Were the men who’d destroyed this room from Iraq?

  Venite, dilecti filii, egredemini in hortum. The words reverberated inside his head. He needed a Bible. Something in his gut told him that the message was linked to the Song of Solomon.

  Omar moved to the next corner, ready to rip the carpet up when he noticed a lump. He picked at the edge of the carpet and found it loose. Seconds later, he held a white envelope sealed in a plastic bag in his hands. The word cyanide was scrawled across the plastic in big black letters. Through the plastic, Omar saw an envelope with a set of words written across it, printed in block letters.

  VENITE, DILECTI FILII, EGREDEMINI IN HORTUM.

  Then he realized why the words seemed familiar. The same words were on the envelope in Dr. Lyon’s office.

  Voices sounded from the hallway.

  “Oh, hell,” Omar said. He stuffed the plastic-enclosed envelope in his pocket. Standing, he faced the window and searched for a latch. The thing was virtually painted to the glass, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins made it easy to pry open. Whether or not the voices were destined for room eighteen, Omar was taking no chances. He maneuvered through the open window and closed it behind him.

  Outside, the sun glistened off the wet clumps of wild grass in the hotel’s scraggly, what-seemed-to-have-once-been-a-garden patch of cracked earth. The sun had offered no mercy to this former oasis. Omar walked briskly, keeping his eyes lowered. The wailing prayer began just as he passed a mosque, nearly causing him to jump out of his skin.

  He waited until he’d been walking about ten minutes before looking around for another taxi—one to take him to the airport.

  A taxi pulled to a stop, already carrying passengers—an ancient woman holding a squawking chicken and a bearded man reading the day’s newspaper. Omar climbed in at the teenage driver’s promise that he would be dropped off first. The odors coming from the chicken were noxious. He hadn’t realized how badly a hen could stink.

  Omar stole a look at the newpaper’s front-page headlines, scanning the Arabic and searching for information of a break-in at the museum. Nothing.

  The envelope. When the taxi lumbered forward, he took out the PDF and flipped to the picture of the deceased professor, holding the image out of the driver’s view as he squinted for a better look. He avoided the professor’s vacant gaze and focused on the envelope. The writing was barely legible on the plain exterior, but the first word was clear: Venite.

  An invitation of death.

  “Or salvation.”

  Omar stared at the taxi driver. The words had been spoken by someone—he was sure of it. Letting out a sigh, he turned to the window, his reflection framing the passing scenery. Now I’m hearing voices.

  CHAPTER

  34

  Jerusalem

  960 BC

  Nicaula clasped her hands together, then unclasped them. In the reflection of the polished length of brass, she studied the servant’s clothing. Nicaula lowered the dark veil, making the disguise complete.

  Azhara stood stiffly by the bed, awkward in her royal attire. Everything from her jewel-encrusted shoes to her embroidered silk headdress made her appear as a queen. Nicaula had not realized how similar their body shapes were until they switched their clothing.

  The queen extended her hand to her servant. “Come and see for yourself.”

  The women stood side by side. The similarity was astonishing.

  “Tonight you will marry Solomon in my place,” Nicaula said. “And I will tell no one about your beloved Tambariah. He will be spared a traitor’s death. The kingdom of Sheba will be forever favored.” She raised Azhara’s veil and smoothed a lock of hair. “On our way out of the city tomorrow, you will have a chance to bid farewell to your love.”

  Azhara nodded as a tear trailed down her cheek.

  “We will leave Jerusalem as we found it.” The queen tilted her servant’s chin upward and gazed into her eyes. “We will leave Tambariah to his conquests and Solomon to his wives and concubines. Your kingdom awaits you at the end of the journey. I have made it known to Solomon that I will spend only one night—the wedding night—with him. Then I leave. But I will not become someone’s lover for just one night. You must ensure that he does not guess our trickery.”

  Azhara swiped at the fast falling tears, and Nicaula lowered the
veil again. “Although the separation from your lover will be bittersweet, the rewards will far outweigh your broken heart. Remember that you will leave Jerusalem as a queen inside your heart, and no man or master will ever be able to take that from you. Your loyalty to me has brought you a lifetime of power and wealth.”

  The women entered the temple of Yahweh together with servants in tow. Through her veil, Nicaula spotted Batal standing in the corner, surrounded by several women. He paid them no attention, but focused his gaze on the dressed-up Azhara.

  Azhara bowed as Solomon approached in his purple robes and white turban laced with colorful jewels. Flung over his shoulders was a tightly woven shawl, white with indigo fringes. A twinge of doubt passed through Nicaula. If he should learn of the deceit . . . He extended a hand to Azhara and led her to the altar. Nicaula’s heart thumped as she watched Azhara stand in her place. The queen forced herself to melt into the crowd, yet stay within view. From across the room, she saw Batal turn away and leave the temple. More than anything, she wanted to leave with Batal and tell him that it was not really her marrying the king.

  The surrounding crowd fell into a hush as the high priest stepped forward. The dignified man blessed Solomon and Azhara as they knelt before the altar. Then he led them to the canopy.

  Those around Nicaula broke into a strange song of foreign words. Then abruptly, the singing stopped.

  “King Solomon, son of David,” the priest’s voice rang out. “Will you take Nicaula, queen of the South, to wife according to the law of Moses and Israel?”

  “Yes,” Solomon said.

  “Nicaula, will you take King Solomon as your husband, according to the law of Moses and Israel?”

  “Yes,” Azhara said, her voice barely audible.

  A second priest presented a cup of wine. Solomon sipped from the cup then passed it to Azhara, and she carefully raised her veil to reveal only her mouth. She sipped the wine and returned the cup to the king.

  The high priest presented the ceremonial ring and gave it to Solomon. He placed it on Azhara’s finger, saying, “Behold, thou art consecrated unto me with this ring according to the law of Moses.”