Max untied the string at the top of her camisole. He started working at the buttons down the front of it. She stopped him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked her.
“I’m … I’m afraid, Max,” she said.
“You? Afraid? Of what?”
“I’m afraid you won’t want me if you see me. Underneath these beautiful things you gave me, I’m not beautiful. I’m all bones and bruises. I look like … well, like I’ve been through a war.”
Max laughed. He propped himself on one elbow and looked into her eyes. “When I first saw you, in Kathmandu, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I still do, Willa. I don’t give a damn about bones and bruises,” he said. “Let me see you.”
“All right,” she said, pulling his face to hers and kissing him hungrily. “But first, more wine.”
Max started to get up, but she stopped him. “No, I can get it. You’ve indulged me enough this evening. Surely I can walk to the dining room and back.”
She left the room walking slowly and deliberately, but as soon as she was out of his sight, she hurried. The seductive smile had fallen away. She had seconds only. Moving as quickly as she could, she hiked up her petticoat, rolled back the top of her stocking, and took out a small, folded square of paper. It contained white powder. She’d ground the pills between the soles of her new shoes earlier that day, when she was supposed to be sleeping, and brushed the powder into a piece of tissue paper from Max’s gift boxes. She dumped the paper’s contents into one of the wineglasses, poured wine on top of it, then stirred the mixture with her finger, praying it would speedily dissolve. She poured wine into the second glass, then picked up both glasses, careful to note which had the ground pills in it, and carried them to the bedroom.
“Here you are,” she said, handing the spiked drink to him. He took a sip, put the glass down on the floor, and reached for her. He had her camisole and petticoat off in a twinkling. Then he finished undressing himself.
Willa smiled and nuzzled him as he did, but inside she was panicking. He had to drink more than a mouthful. She didn’t know how strong the mixture was, or how fast it would work, but she was certain that if he became woozy, instead of unconscious, he would figure out what she’d done. And then it would all be over.
She picked up his glass and handed it back to him. “A toast, Max. To the end of this war,” she said, taking a sip. Max followed her lead.
“To Everest,” she added, taking another mouthful. Max did, too.
“And to us,” she said. “To our future. Which begins tonight.” She drained her glass then, and Max did the same.
She took his glass and put it, and hers, on the floor. “Make love to me slowly, Max. I don’t want to rush this. I want it to last,” she said, her voice soft and low. “I want us to take our time tonight, to forget all the bad memories and make new ones. Good ones.”
She lay down on the bed and twined her arms around his neck. He kissed her mouth again, then her breasts, her belly. He kissed her hip, then parted her legs.
Willa let out a small sigh of what she hoped sounded like pleasure. She wondered, desperately, how long it would be before the pills took effect. She didn’t want to do this.
“My God, but I want you,” Max said suddenly, and then he was inside her.
Willa gasped loudly and not from desire. Hot tears stung behind her eyes. What did you do wrong? she silently shouted at herself. Why isn’t it working?
She bit her lip as Max pounded against her. Her plan had failed. She would go back to her hospital room after tonight—if by some mercy Max didn’t figure out what she’d done. And she would have to pretend, day in and day out, that she adored him; she would have to have dinners with him, and sleep with him, and all the while Faisal, Lawrence, Auda, and their soldiers would be marching to their doom.
And then suddenly, Max stopped. He laughed self-consciously and passed a hand over his sweaty face. “The wine,” he said. “It must’ve gone to my head.”
Willa laughed. “I feel tipsy, too. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” She kissed him again. “Don’t stop, Max. Make love to me. Now. I want you so.”
Max rolled off her onto his side. He blinked his eyes a few times, then closed them and shook his head.
Terrified that he’d twigged what she’d done, Willa pretended that she thought he’d only grown tired. “You can rest,” she whispered. “It’s my turn now.” She bent over him, to kiss him, ran a hand over his chest. He opened his eyes, caressed one of her breasts, then quickly closed his eyes again and pressed his hands to his face.
“My head … it’s spinning,” he said. Willa kissed him again. He pushed her off him and sat up, understanding dawning in his eyes. “The wine,” he said, swaying slightly. “You put something in the wine.” With effort, he swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood up, but his legs gave way and he fell to the floor. “Why, Willa?” he rasped, trying to pull himself up. He fell back on the floor then, toppling over with the bedcover in his hands. He groaned once. His eyes closed. He was still.
Willa was so terrified, she could barely breathe. She nudged him once with her foot, then again, then she jumped out of bed and dressed as quickly as she could. Her injured ribs were protesting, but she ignored them. She was a lot stronger than she’d been letting on.
Glancing nervously at Max, she picked his clothes up off the floor and went through them. She found nothing in his trousers, but there was a wallet in his jacket. She took the paper money from it and threw the wallet on the floor.
Next, she raced to the billiards room and grabbed an antique sword and three pistols off the wall. She ransacked the room’s closets and cabinets, looking for bullets, and finally found some. Then she flew down the hall to the study and grabbed the maps she’d seen Max roll up earlier. She didn’t stop to look at them, just took them all.
She was at the front door, almost out of the house, when she caught sight of her reflection in a hallway mirror, and saw a woman in a fancy dress, clutching weapons and maps. How far would she get looking like this? Not far at all. She needed different clothes. She would have to go back into the bedroom, and she had no idea how long the effects of the pills would last.
Moving slowly and quietly, she made her way back down the hallway. She peered around the door, her heart crashing in her chest, and saw Max. He was still on the floor, right where she’d left him.
Go, she commanded herself. Now. Hurry.
She put the weapons and maps on the bed then ran to the closet. “Please be here,” she whispered. “Please.” She rifled through the uniforms, dinner jackets, shirts, and trousers. They weren’t what she wanted. “Come on, you have to be in here somewhere,” she said. And then she spotted what she was after—the long robes worn by Arab men. She grabbed a blue one and a white one, and two matching head scarves. She quickly put the blue one on over her dress and wrapped a scarf around her head. The garments’ dark colors would make her less visible in the city streets.
She looked at Max again; he hadn’t moved. Everything inside her was urging her to run, but she knew she couldn’t. Not yet. She needed something to put the sword, pistols, and maps in. Saddlebags would have been nice, and would have helped her look inconspicuous in a city where most still rode camels, but she had no time to look for them. Max could wake up at any second. As she tried to decide what to do, her eyes came to rest on the bed. She quickly grabbed a pillow, pulled off its case and stuffed her things inside it. The sword stuck out of the opening, but she would just have to make do. She’d spent too long here already; she should have been gone by now.
Willa was just lifting the case off the bed when Max’s hand closed around her ankle. She screamed and tried to break free, but he jerked her leg hard and she lost her balance and fell to the floor. The pillowcase and its contents crashed down next to her.
“Morphine, was it?” Max rasped. “You should’ve put more in. You should’ve finished me off.”
Willa struggled. She kic
ked at him with her free leg, but he caught it in his other hand and held it fast against the floor. Max woozily got to his knees and lurched toward her. His hands closed on her arm. He tried to drag her to her feet, but Willa kicked and struggled against him. She had to get free. It was over for her, and for Lawrence, if she didn’t.
Max tightened his grip. Willa’s hands scrabbled against his, trying to pry his fingers loose, but even though the drugs had made Max slow and clumsy, she was still no match for him. She kicked at him again and her foot caught him in the groin. He roared out in pain, rose up, and slapped her hard. She fell back against the floor, hitting her head. Lights exploded in front of her eyes. Her hands fell away from Max. One of them came down on the pillowcase.
The pillowcase. With every last ounce of her strength, Willa shoved her hand inside of it. Her fingers closed on a pistol barrel. It wasn’t loaded, but it didn’t need to be. Max was on all fours now, groaning. Willa pulled the pistol out, raised it as high as she could, and brought it down on his head.
Max shouted. Pain and rage contorted his face. His hands went to his head. That was all Willa needed. She hit him again. And again. Until he had stopped yelling, stopped groaning, until he had collapsed against her and was still.
Willa threw the pistol down. A small moan escaped her. Had she killed him? Oh, God, no. She didn’t want to kill him. She’d only wanted to escape from him.
“Max? Max!” she cried. He gave her no answer. For a few seconds she was paralyzed by the horror of what she’d done.
Get out of here, a voice inside her suddenly said. Go. Now.
Sobbing, she pushed him off. His blood had spattered across her face and onto her hands. It had seeped into her robes. She got to her feet and staggered to the bathroom. She quickly washed the blood off her skin and decided not to change her robes. They were blue; the blood wouldn’t show in the dark.
She stumbled back to the bedroom, picked up the pillowcase, and ran.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
“Southwest,” Willa whispered as she ran through the night streets of Damascus. The souk is about four streets west of us. Southwest, actually, Max had said.
But which way was southwest? She had tried to walk back the way they’d come, but had become disoriented. It had not yet been dark when they’d arrived at Max’s house. Now it was past eleven and pitch-black. There were no streetlights and no moon, and Willa, who’d been running flat out for the last fifteen minutes, realized she was lost.
She stopped, trying to make sense of her surroundings, to get her bearings, but she was unfamiliar with the city and its streets. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could barely breathe. She was panicking.
She had likely just killed a man. And not just any man, but Max von Brandt, a high-ranking German officer. If Max was dead, he would be discovered in a matter of hours when his servants arrived to begin their morning duties. But if he was still alive, if he could move, he would stagger to a neighbor’s house for help. The alarm could go up at any minute, and when it did, the whole city would be searching for her. Willa knew she must get as far away from Damascus as she possibly could. As fast as she could.
She fought down her panic, looking left and right, trying to decide which way to go. A cry came from above her. She quickly looked up. A bird startled by something, perhaps a cat on the prowl, flew noisily from its nest into the sky. Willa followed, more by sound than by sight, and then she saw it—the night sky, full of stars.
She nearly laughed out loud. Of course! She’d been in shock, too upset to think straight, or she would have looked up at the stars when she’d first run out of Max’s house. The stars were always there for her when she was lost. Picking out Polaris, she gauged southwest by its position, then pressed on, turned right instead of continuing straight as she’d intended to do, and ten minutes later, she was nearing the souk.
She saw the glow of lanterns up ahead, under whitewashed arches, smelled animals, heard the low, murmuring conversation of the traders who were still awake, and knew she was in the right place.
The first group she came to only had goats for sale. The next had horses. She pushed on, her head down, until she found the camel traders. The ones closest to her were Howeitat. She recognized their language and their clothing. Their camels were lying down in the dirt. She addressed the nearest man. He was standing at the edge of the group, facing away from them, eating olives and spitting the pits.
“I need a camel and bridle. Now,” she told him, in his own tongue. She lowered her voice, hoping that in her robes and headscarf she would pass for a man.
The man took her to his animals, which were a few yards away, and prodded the beasts into standing. Willa picked one. The man shook his head and regretfully informed her that the camel she’d picked was his very best one and therefore very expensive.
Willa pulled the jeweled sword out of the pillowcase. She noticed for the first time that there was blood on the case. The camel trader noticed it, too.
She turned the bloodstain toward herself and said, “I will trade you this sword for the camel.”
The man took the sword from her, inspected it, then handed it back to her. “It is a fake,” he said. “Very nice, but a fake. I will take it as partial payment. What else have you got?”
“It is no fake. If you will not take it, perhaps another man will,” Willa said, putting the sword back in the pillowcase.
“Perhaps I spoke too quickly,” the man said.
“Good. But my offer’s changed,” Willa said. “I’ll still give you the sword, but I want a saddle, a crop, and a skin of water as well.”
The man bowed his head. “Very well,” he said.
Willa took the sword out of the case again. She handed it to the man. He took it and grabbed her roughly by the wrist. She didn’t dare scream. She couldn’t afford to attract attention.
“Let me go,” she hissed at him.
But he didn’t. Instead he pushed up the sleeve of her robe. “Your skin’s as white as goat’s milk,” he said, “just like the great sheik Lawrence.” He pushed her scarf back on her head. “And a woman, too.” His voice turned menacing. “I wonder, are you the one Lawrence seeks? The one who flew in the sky? What have you done, little bird? How did you come by this sword? Why is there blood upon the sack you carried it in?”
Terror gripped Willa. This man was a trader. He would sell her, and not to Lawrence. Lawrence was too far away. He would hand her back to the Turks. Her only chance was to somehow convince him not to.
“Let me go, Howeitat,” she said. “The Turk is no friend to you. Let me go to help Lawrence and Auda abu Tayi return to you and your sons the land the Turks stole. The land of your fathers.”
For a few seconds, the man’s face softened, but then his eyes narrowed, and he said, “Lawrence cannot win. He has too few men.”
“He can win. He will win. If you let me go.” She shook her pillowcase. “I have information in here. Maps I took from the Turks and the Germans. They will help Lawrence find the best way to Damascus. A great sheik from Cairo, a great warrior, will come with Lawrence. Together they will take the city.”
The camel trader weighed this, and weighed her, Willa felt, and then he let her go.
“Ride due south. Lawrence’s camp is past the Jabal al Duruz hills. Just north of Azraq. Well east of Minifir. Six days away, five if you’re fast. Stay away from the railway. Turkish battalions are patrolling it daily. Be wary.”
Willa, weak with relief, thanked him. She started walking toward the camel she’d picked, but the man stopped her. “That one is lame. Take this other. He name is Attayeh. He is young and healthy,” he said, directing her to a larger animal. The trader saddled the camel, gave Willa the water and crop she’d asked for, tied her pillowcase securely to her saddle, and told her to go with Allah.
Seconds later, she was off, riding down the street to the Bab al-Jabiya gate. It wasn’t far from the souk. She could see the light from the lanterns positioned at either side of
the gate. Willa prayed that the gate was open. If it was closed for the night, she was finished. Willa pulled her scarf down low on her forehead.
As she got closer to the gate, she saw that it was still open. Better yet, there were no guards around it. Her heart leapt. She spurred the camel into a trot, then a canter. She’d have one chance to get through the gate and one chance only, and she wasn’t stopping for anybody or anything.
When she was about twenty yards away, a guard suddenly stepped out of a small stone hut that was just to the left of the gate. He saw her and immediately yelled at her to stop. Another guard joined him. Both men had rifles. They raised them and aimed at Willa.
“Keep the gates open!” she yelled at them in Turkish, as manfully as she could. “Jamal Pasha is coming! Jamal Pasha is coming. He is behind me in his automobile! There is an emergency! He must get to Beirut by morning! Make way for Jamal Pasha!”
Surprised, the guards lowered their guns and stepped aside, trying to see past Willa, looking for the governor’s car. Their surprise lasted for only a few seconds, but that was all she needed. She was past them in a flash, through the gate, and on the road out of Damascus, riding like the wind.
She heard gunshots behind her and prayed nothing hit her camel, or herself. In that order. She would keep going with a bullet wound, for as long as she could, but her camel might not. Nothing hit either of them, and within a few minutes, the hardpan road gave way to the looser sands of the desert. Willa did not let up on her camel, but kept whipping the creature, yelling at him, keeping him in a canter, afraid that the guards would send someone after her. No one followed, however. Perhaps the guards could not scare up a car or camels at this hour, or perhaps they had no wish to—not wanting anyone to know they had allowed someone through the gates whom they should not have.
Willa chanced a few glances behind her, heartened to see the city falling away. Her camel cantered up a dune and down the other side, and Damascus was gone. Willa whooped for joy and then, her robes flying behind her, disappeared into the desert night.
The Wild Rose Page 44