Treasure of Eden

by Sherer, B. K. ; Linnea, Sharon

  These night rides, and the wonderful colors of their tents, the pouring of the tea for important visitors, the days of herding goats and exploring caves, would be nothing more than crazy stories she would tell her grandchildren, and they’d mock her.

  Even now she knew she was crying as she rode, half out of happiness, half out of grief, and the tears were taken by the wind, and hidden forever in the desert sands.

  January 26, 2007, 4:52 a.m.

  (1 day, 4 hours, 38 minutes until end of auction)

  Aéroport de Paris–Le Bourget

  Le Bourget, France

  * * *

  Jaime had been correct. There was a woman waiting for her when she dressed and got out of the bathroom. She had pulled back on the jeans and sweatshirt after realizing the folly of trying to wear a tight white blouse under the current circumstances. Instead, she’d turned the Zurich sweatshirt inside out, scraped off most of the dried blood, put it back to the right side, and pulled it on.

  In contrast, the woman waiting for her was impeccably groomed. She wore black pants, a white shell, and a black jacket with white scrolling. It looked comfortable but chic. Around her neck was a gold pendant of what looked to be an ancient shield, and she wore matching earrings. Her hair was black and full, pulled back into a barrette, the hair beneath the hair clip flared with a natural curl.

  The woman herself was medium height and medium build, but she had an aura about her that made her seem anything but medium. Her face was oval, her eyes blue-gray, her gaze intense. Jaime knew immediately that this was a woman who was kind, who was smart, and with whom you didn’t mess.

  The woman had put two hot drinks in take-out cups down on the table, and was opening a bag of pastries. She took Jaime’s old, cold coffee away. “Your file says you prefer tea,” she said with a smile.

  “This looks wonderful,” said Jaime, wondering who the woman was.

  Jaime took the top off her cup of tea and breathed in the aroma. The piquant smell of oranges and black tea vied for supremacy. She removed the tea bag, and took a taste.

  She was coming back to life.

  The woman put down a paper plate with fresh croissants, adding, “Here’s butter, and jam and a banana.”

  “Bless you,” said Jaime.

  “Let’s sit down.”

  Jaime sat. The woman spoke. “As you know, protocol dictates that I can tell you either my first name or my Operative ID. I’m TC2.”

  “Oh–ma’am–very pleased to meet you,” said Jaime. She couldn’t believe, of all the Operatives in the world, she was sitting at a table with this woman. Back at Mountaintop, they’d made it clear you should not expect to ever meet one of the two Operatives at the TC level.

  “First off, I wanted to meet you in person. I’ve heard so much about you–your courage, your compassion. Second, I wanted to tell you that you’ve been getting the short end of the stick. Most Operatives are not taken captive once, let alone on an ongoing basis. You have my apology, and my gratitude for the grace with which you’ve carried on. Not many people–even Operatives–would have had the gumption to put themselves in Frank McMillan’s trunk. But it was of great help to us and gave us intelligence we couldn’t have gotten any other way. How are you?”

  “Still reeling,” Jaime answered honestly. She appreciated TC2’s words, yet her saying she’d heard about Jaime’s “courage” and “compassion” was a two-edged sword. At the completion of her last assignment, Yani had complimented her on the same thing–before adding that Jaime still lacked an Operative’s third needed trait: perspective.

  At the time, she’d been insulted.

  She’d come to see he’d been right.

  If this woman had heard Jaime possessed the first two qualities, she’d undoubtedly heard about her weakness with the third.

  “I’d be surprised if you weren’t reeling. But I don’t have time to mince words. I’m here because I have a question for you. And please know you have the option of saying no.”

  Jaime put down her tea, mid-sip. This should be interesting.

  “As I mentioned, Frank McMillan has stumbled onto the current critical. It involves the box in the photograph he showed you. It’s a valuable box in any circumstances, to anyone, but it holds special meaning for gardeners. As you know–and as Frank McMillan also knows–it’s currently in the possession of a tribe of Bedouin in the hills of Judea. The sheikh of the clan, a man named Omar al-Asim, has put it up for sale. We would like to have it. We would like to make certain that others, such as Frank McMillan, do not have it.

  “We currently have our two top male Operatives on the assignment. But in Bedouin culture, men and women are kept strictly separated, even at weddings such as the one the clan is celebrating tomorrow. While there’s every likelihood, given the Bedouin culture, the events having to do with the sale of, and possession of, the box will happen among the men, it’s become clear we need someone among the women.

  “According to your file, while at Mountaintop you had specialized training in the way of Muslim tribes, as well as Middle Eastern languages. Your reentry was through Iranian goatherds. Obviously, the Bedouin in Israel are different in substantial ways, but you have a good base on which to build. We’d have someone meet you in Israel, someone who could fill you in, give you pertinent cultural information, the correct clothing, and take you to the wedding. Chances are you would not be called on to do anything on this assignment other than be our eyes and ears among the women. I can also tell you the assignment will be very short. The auction for the box ends just before tomorrow’s wedding.”

  “What about Frank McMillan? He’s heading that way right now. Wouldn’t he recognize me right away?”

  “As I said, women and men are strictly separated. McMillan’s business will be with Omar al-Asim, and him alone. And, although the women of this tribe don’t cover their faces as a matter of course, they do wear veils that can be used for that purpose if they’re in proximity to a man outside their immediate family. It would be easy for you to keep your identity from McMillan. And we can say with certainty that he won’t be expecting you. If there was any chance I felt he would continue to be a danger to you, I wouldn’t allow you to be considered for the assignment.

  “Many people will be arriving for the wedding. We could get you there, successfully planted, hours before McMillan would have a chance to arrive on the scene.”

  Jaime took a croissant, and spread butter with a plastic knife. She tried to think clearly. It was true she had specialized training in Middle Eastern tribes, and under ordinary circumstances she’d love to observe a Bedouin wedding. She’d also do almost anything to make certain that Frank didn’t get the box. But to her, the most compelling argument was that TC2 had said the top two male Operatives were already on the assignment. She couldn’t say for certain that Yani was one of them. But he’d not only been a top Operative; he’d also been chosen to be a Sword. While he’d resigned from that special designation and gone back to being an Operative, he’d of course be one of the top–wouldn’t he?

  Jaime knew that, without unusual circumstances such as this, her chances of interacting with Yani again in her lifetime were small to nonexistent.

  It could very well be that he was not on this assignment.

  But it could be he was.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll go.”

  “Great. Thank you. There’s a plane taxiing into the hangar for you right now. We can get you to Tel Aviv by dawn, and out to the desert by midday. The festivities began several days ago. Tonight is the bride’s henna night; tomorrow is the wedding. It should be quite an experience.”

  I bet it will, thought Jaime. I bet it will.

  January 26, 2007, 5:15 a.m.

  (1 day, 4 hours, 15 minutes until end of auction)

  Paris–Charles de Gaulle Airport, France

  * * *

  A waitress approached Frank McMillan with a glass of champagne as he sat working in the Salon 200 VIP lounge. He waved her off di
smissively. Leave it to the French to waste all their time on a drink that took years to make, then once the bottle is opened must be drunk immediately or it would go bad.

  He read the update on his BlackBerry.

  There is a jeweler from South Africa who has been invited to the wedding, wrote the agent in Tel Aviv. He is one of three craftsmen asked to create a unique gift for the bride. It is a contest of sorts, in which the winning piece will be chosen by the bride. For a fee, the jeweler will let you go in his place. You are of similar height and build, and could pose as his brother, Hans.

  This would be no problem. With his time spent in Europe, Frank could affect a fair German accent.

  Set it up, he typed in response. I will need papers, of course, and a couple weapons. A Beretta Cheetah .380 pistol will do, and a knife I can carry easily. My flight lands at 11:30 a.m. Have someone pick me up.

  January 26, 2007, 8:03 a.m

  (1 day, 2 hours, 27 minutes until end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  The women of the clan had been up for hours, some preparing breakfast and some already starting the meals for later in the day. Spicy aromas colored the air, seasoned by the laughter of the women and girls. No matter what they thought of the Hajj’s upcoming marriage, they were hosting a festive celebration, and normal work was canceled for the next few days. That alone was enough to put a smile on the face of the dourest old woman.

  It was celebration time!

  Many of the invited guests from outside the clan had arrived two days ago; the remainder would arrive today. For the Bedouin, the most serious celebrations really began the night before the wedding. In the old days–days Omar himself could still remember–the men and women had mixed on the bride’s henna night. The women’s dancing had been festive and free, the songs suggestive, the flirtations intense. Women and men had been allowed to mingle, and the men got to see a side of their wives, sisters, and cousins that was shown very rarely: the laughing, sexual side that hinted that the women might actually enjoy the marriage bed.

  But then society had changed; the stern Imams had taken over Islam, and now the women danced and teased only for one another.

  Not everything in the world changed for the better.

  The Hajj looked at the men of his own clan, gathered now in the big tent. They all ate the offered mensef, which consisted of fresh goat boiled in laban, goat yogurt, and served on shraak, a combination of rice and bread. He wondered, as he had many times over the years, if he had known what it meant to be sheikh, all the headaches and troubles that came with it, would he have wished it so sincerely? More than once he had fantasized life as a simple shepherd or businessman. Then he could come to the clan meetings and do nothing but complain. He could sit there and care about nothing except the fortunes of his own family. The politics of the clan, the tribe, the Israeli Bedouin, the state of Israel–what would it matter to him?

  He studied the faces of the men around him. Although guests had started arriving, so far they were kin: he knew, or at least recognized, all of them. It was when the others, some strangers, arrived that he would worry.

  For that was the thought that dogged him, the thought he couldn’t get out of his mind, no matter what he did. The auction for the box was ending tomorrow morning. The auctioneer would come, demanding it. The threats of what would happen if the box was not presented thus far had been vague but the tone strident.

  The Hajj did not even know what Abihu el-Musaq looked like.

  Maybe the Hajj should have sold the box right away, in the early days, when he could have gone to the cobbler shop in Bethlehem and dealt with Kando, instead of it turning into an electronic international event.

  He knew el-Musaq was ruthless. He understood he should not make him annoyed, let alone upset. He also knew Abihu el-Musaq had gone past upset, deep into angry.

  And he was angry at the Hajj.

  Who had taken the damn box?

  The Hajj looked at the men who circled the room. In his mind, he could create a reason for any of them to have stolen it.

  Farook, his own oldest son, could be using it as a grab for power. In Bedouin society, leadership didn’t necessarily stay in the family, or pass to the eldest if it did. He would have a more-than-fair shot at it, but it wasn’t a given.

  The Hajj’s third son seemed eager to have a role of responsibility. He was a vocal advocate of building up their town and staying there all year. Planting more orchards, doing anything that would prove they were planted, so that the Israeli government couldn’t up and move them to a garbage dump, as they had the Jahalin. Branching out into more modern jobs. Many of the younger men agreed with him. He wasn’t sure how the box would help with that goal, except, perhaps, to be sold and finance the modernization of the town. Or lawyers to help them keep claim to it.

  Then there was the old man–well, the same age as the Hajj–who had stood in line to be sheikh, until the Hajj, Omar, had found the box. Perhaps this was his payback, after all this time.

  Or perhaps the father of his third wife, Asad, had discovered that the Hajj was planning to spend some of the money from the box on a fabulous piece of jewelry as a wedding gift for his new bride, Yasmin. Perhaps Asad and her father were angry and wanted their share also.

  The Hajj’s worst fear, however, was that his cousin–the brother of Rashid–suspected the truth, that Rashid had not gone off into the world to find his fortune. If he had, wouldn’t he have written? Come back to show off his car, his money, and his wife?

  The brother of Rashid was the only one with a true claim to the box.

  Had the spirit of Rashid come to him–in a dream, perhaps–and told him what had really happened?

  Now the men were all smiling and laughing. Eating the dates and yogurt. In a celebratory mood. They didn’t suspect that in a day’s time everything could fall apart. The Hajj could be murdered, the box gone, the clan set on a path of revenge that would put them at odds with modern laws and local authorities.

  How could he find out who took the box?

  The Bedouin had an ancient ceremony called the fire test, which forced men to tell the truth. The man whose honesty was in question had to lick the bottom of a scalding-hot pan three times. If he was telling the truth, he would not be burned. But if Hajj asked everyone to do this, it would be taken as an outrage. It would strike at the honor of every man in the room to be suspected of being a liar and a thief.

  The Hajj tried to look at it another way. Whom did he trust?

  He should be able to say his own sons. Up until now, he would have.

  There were three cousins who had already arrived. He’d always thought them trustworthy allies.

  Those cousins had come with several of their cousins, also men whom the Hajj had always enjoyed. Especially the tall one, Ahmet. Ahmet was laughing now, at one of the jokes. But he was also a friend, who went out of his way to bring greetings to the Hajj whenever he came, and usually had words of wisdom or understanding.

  The Hajj knew he couldn’t wait too long to take more decisive action. Up until now, he hadn’t told anyone except his oldest son that the box was missing. It was that son, and his sons, who had searched the family tents.

  To say the box was gone would be to relinquish power. In the Hajj’s own mind, he pictured himself shrinking back into a normal man.

  What should he do?

  “What’s the problem, old man? Are you afraid your new bride will have too much youthful energy?” teased the Hajj’s brother.

  “I did not know that would be thought a problem!” the Hajj returned jovially. But what he really thought was, What will Abihu el-Musaq do, slit my throat?

  Omar looked again at Ahmet, thinking of his wise counsel in the past. Perhaps he could share the problem with Ahmet. He also had the goodwill of most of the other men in the camp. Perhaps Ahmet could ask around to see if anyone knew anything–or if anyone would tell him, point-blank, that h
e had taken the box, and why. If someone had it, there must be something he wanted. He must be looking to make a deal.

  Yes, Omar would speak in private to Ahmet. And he would see if, together, they could find out who the thief was, and what he demanded, before nightfall.

  January 26, 2007, 12:08 p.m.

  (22 hours, 22 minutes until end of auction)

  The bride’s camp, Judean wilderness

  Israel

  * * *

  Shortly after noontime, the women of the clan came to get Yasmin, to bring her to the spacious tent of her maternal grandmother, where the henna night festivities would be held.

  All that Yasmin noticed, or cared about, was that the men were gone. Her stepfather and her younger brother had vanished, and would not be seen again by her this day.

  Her celebration clothing for the night was already at her grandmother’s when the women arrived, singing and laughing, to fetch her and her mother.

  Yasmin knew she should be grateful to her grandmother for hosting the celebration. The women from the Hajj’s camp would think Yasmin came from a fine, important family. Yet her feelings were ambivalent. Her grandmother was a powerful woman: the mother of the chief. Why hadn’t she done more to persuade her oldest son not to let the widow of his brother marry such a man as the Monster?

  Undoubtedly, Yasim’s grandmother had expressed her disapproval. But couldn’t she have tried harder? Did she not love Yasmin and her brother at all?

  Then the women and girls were there, and they were laughing and chattering, and remarking about the bride. In her grandmother’s tent, she would put on her new dress and have her hair braided and arranged for the celebration that night. The older women smiled and nodded, and talked to her mother about how pretty Yasmin was, how beautiful her long, dark hair.