“Damn you,” she whispered. Her last shred of pride vanquished, he still held off granting her the release she – and he – craved. Instead, his head dipped, his tongue gently swathing each of her dusky rose-tipped nipples, then lowered to delve into the well of her belly button, rimmed with her flesh distinctively fresh taste and desert salt. They both tasted of salt.
Unbearable pleasure darkened her eyes. “Oh, God,” she rusked. Her stomach muscles spammed, and he smiled.
“It’s not God, just me, your friendly CSD here to give you pleasure.”
“What do you want from me, Jack?”
His head lifting, his eyes captured hers. “In no uncertain terms – only you. Just as you are. And as long as you don’t want the three C’s from me, I’m fine as wine in the summertime.”
“The three C’s?”
He held off, waiting. “Yeah. Chemistry, communication, and commitment.”
“Ahhh, yes, you want only the two C’s – crystal chip.”
“You got me, there, sweetheart. Question is, can I have you. That last is not a question but a statement.
She didn’t even bother to respond. Her sigh and lids that drifted closed were response enough. He tracked even lower. Her wildly intoxicating feminine scent guided him. It pleased him that she didn’t shave as some of his other lovers had. Despite her little girl size, she was totally woman.
Her head thrashed back and forth at the insistent lathing of his tongue. “Yes, now,” she pleaded.
“Soon,” he murmured against her. Excitement enflamed him, and he forgot his purpose.
Her hands gripped either side of his temples. “Now!” she ordered.
He grinned in the darkness. “Your every desire is my pleasure.” His tongue relinquished her and he knelt erect over her.
Her hands cupped his buttocks, slid upward beneath his t-shirt to track the muscles ridging either side of his spine, and then pulled his hips toward her own. He levered himself plank-wise so that she jerked his jeans down. When her fingers found him, he groaned aloud and sank against her.
“Ssssh,” she whispered, and he could almost imagine her triumphant smile.
Nevertheless, those little hands boldly continued to work their magic on his genitals until he was so hard he hurt. He shuddered, wanting an end to this exquisite torment. Somewhere, a part of his brain told him he would soon be lost. He shoved her hands away. Kneeling upright, his hands anchored her buttocks to control his entry. Slow, tantalizing, withdrawal, a little deeper, another agonizingly slow withdrawal. Sliding ever so deeper. Deeper into this maddening need for her. From somewhere he recalled his purpose. His mouth somehow formed the words but yet again. “Surrender?”
“Damn you, yes!”
“Say it.”
She gasped. Tears sparkled in her eyes. “I surrender.” The words were only a faint breath.
It didn’t take him long to bring her to her climax. She had been famished for it, frantic for it. He could have reveled in his sense of supremacy, bringing her to ecstasy again and again until she was crying silently, her lips begging for him in ragged whispers. Yet, unaccountably, he had finally dropped his steely control and given himself up to her, plummeting deep and losing himself in her as he seldom risked doing.
Suddenly, he pulled away from her.
She went still, her breathing ragged.
The realization slammed him . . . he was vulnerable and unnerved. As if in denial, he drove deep and silenced her surprised outcry with a punishing kiss, for that was what it was . . . punishing her for intuiting his sexual urges, needs, fantasies and supplying them so fearlessly, so unguarded, so effortlessly.
Once more, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Her lips deserted the hollow of his neck to find his again. They ravished each other, without regard to where they were or whom might hear, until they found that unbearably beautiful release in each other.
He lay atop her, his heart hammering in his ears. The night’s cool air played over his muscles, sweat-damp from exertion. She shivered a little with the chill of the perspiration rapidly drying on their flesh.
“My . . . my . . . my,” was all the eloquence he could articulate.
“A&E,” she rasped.
“A&E?” he asked, his breath still irregular, his heart still pounding like a drum. His brow wrinkled. “Arts and Entertainment?”
“No. Approaching Ecstasy. Forget beer. Ecstasy is delicious, hot or chilled.”
“Well, your experience hasn’t gone to waste.”
He watched her shut down with nary a retort. He had succeeded in distancing her now and later, when he would have the crystal chip in hand. And he had never felt more bereft. Not even at Linda’s death, for he had no control over that. Why not admit it? He was addicted. If there was a vaccination against the Woman-Yes-To-You virus, damn’t, he was speeding straight to the nearest clinic, sleeve rolled up or jocks shoved down. The desire virus was dangerous, deadly, and dream-vaporizing. His dream of an unlimited power supply would be ashes if she and her Happy Hopis had their way.
Her voice came out of the dark, hard and sharp as a blade. “You know, Jack you’re full of shit if you think you want a life without drama. Why did you wrench Charley out of school to go on some likely wild-goose chase on my reservation for your stolen energy prototype? Why did you so readily agree to travel half way around the world in search of an elusive quartz chip? Why are you willing to risk your life now for the legendary Ark of the Covenant? Could it be perhaps it’s me you’re really needing, wild drama and all”
Well, she was never one to surrender the fight. Icy beads of a cold perspiration dampened his temples and mustache. He rolled from her. When this was over, when he had the chip, he would put her from his mind with a rapidity that rivaled a fading shooting star. He countered with a musing, insouciant reply. “Talk about wild drama . . . just think of all those who have been looking for the Ark – the Templars, the Freemason, the Israelites, the Rothschilds, the Illuminati, the –“
“And by the way, next time,” she hissed, “you’re on the bottom,” and, grabbing a handful of sand, she pelted him. “It’s rough on the ass. But then you should know, since you are such an ass!”
Giving thought later to her summation of his erratic temperament, he decided that perhaps she was right . . . about the ass part, at least. But needing drama? Nah. He had seen too much of that in Iran. The hard eyes behind the servile smiles of the villagers, the petrified face of a young village mother about to be beheaded for theft of food, his lieutenant’s cold, avid expression as he raped a village boy.
Yes, Jack had experienced too much of that, too much drama . . . drama that was way out of proportion with his wife’s dying. His helplessness at watching the pain wrack her body, his fury at seeing the disease ravage her spirit, his total dysfunction following her death, the feeling he had failed as a husband, father, and human being.
And as for needing Janet . . . well, maybe wanting her. But needing her? Nah. It was just loneliness he was feeling. What he needed was Charley in the den, watching Star Wars for the umpteenth time, while he piddled on his energy project with a football game blaring in the background and a beer near at hand on his work counter. Was that asking so much?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The problem with traveling to Ataq, the small and rather uninteresting capital of the Shabwa Governorate of Yemen, was that al Qaeda had declared the Empty Quarter part of the governorate as the Second Islamic Emirate. Not even a Muslim would rate Ataq as a Top Ten travel choice for health and well being. Ataq had only one decent hotel although a couple of its compounds, comprised of cinder-block buildings, were large enough to accommodate travelers. Tariq al-Madh’s compound, a dusty two-story block of reinforced cement and concrete, might have afforded food and shelter but its security Boyd Grainger did not quite trust.
That evening Boyd chose to meet with Tariq, one of the most wanted men in the world, in the central market place at the taxi station. A taxi pulled up alongside
Boyd, and it’s driver, a guard of Tariq’s jumped out to open the back door. Boyd slid his girth inside. The big nosed, thick bearded Tariq sat opposite him, clothed entirely in a white thobe with the ubiquitous jambiya belted at his waist. The Yemen leader of al Qaeda exuded fearlessness, confidence, ruthlessness, and tectonic focus. “You take a chance,” he said by way of greeting. His voice was smooth as honey heated to 451º Fahrenheit.
“Lonely Planet travel guide says the palace of Ba Jammal is a must.” He stretched out, propping his ostrich-skin cowboy boots on the floor hump.
Tariq’s thin lips disappeared into a seam within his beard, and he gave a “Hrummph! That pile of mud bricks.” Nevertheless, he directed his guard to drive to the palace, then said, “I gather you have information that is too valuable to trust in a dispatch?”
“Only if you consider your life valuable.”
Tariq’s good eye narrowed. His dossier stated childhood small pox was responsible for the affliction that had left him with one droopy lid. “Feel free to expound, my friend.” he said sarcastically.
“My people tell me you are meeting with Scudder soon.”
A bored sigh issued from the wealth of beard. “And Uncle Sam wants the chip, right.”
“I want the chip.”
The hooded eyes studied him as he were an insect. “How does one so easily shift alliances – and values? From Capitalism to Islam to mere self interest?”
“From watching a Mafia hoodlum blow a hole in a man’s forehead simply because he was Irish – a Mick, an ape, as the guy called my father before he plugged him. It’s everyman for himself. As they instruct you on the airplane, Tariq, you have to take care of yourself before you can take care of the person next to you. After the exchange, I’ll meet up with you – and the chip – at the tomb.”
“What makes you think I’d turn the chip over to you?”
“The CIA has been ramping up its intelligence gathering efforts in recent months in order to support a sustained covert campaign of drone strikes. The drones can target a small area, thereby reducing the risk of civilian casualties – an area as small as your compound.”
Tariq’s smile was at contrast with his malevolent dark eyes. “As I said, you take a chance coming here. Who’s to say if you don’t get lost in the desert going back to Sana’a?”
“A sealed pouch on my desk with profiles, patterns of life, surveillance . . . specifics like the names and locations of training camps, wives and children and parents, things like that.” He leaned forward, peering past Tariq out the window at the spot lit edifice. “Well now, looky there, if you aren’t right . . . the palace of Ba Jammal is indeed little more than a pile of mud bricks. Even the finest of buildings can be brought low, eh, my friend?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They loaded up the 4x4 by moon and star light, both rapidly fading from the sky. Jack nodded at the few lingering stars. “Did you know the Hebrew’s magi were said to have been astronomers who set off from here in Yemen bound for Bethlehem? According to accounts, the astronomers were hoping to find a new ruler connected with the new star.”
“Astrophysics is your field,” Janet said tonelessly. “Do you think that may be a clue . . . that maybe they returned with the Ark of the Covenant?”
What she really wanted to know was if she had gotten through his heart’s barbed wire fence last night. The raw hatred in his eyes, when she had challenged him on leaving this dead wife and the past behind should have made anyone with a conscience bite her tongue. But not her. She wanted that response of anger from Jack. A healthy anger that would propel him past that helpless, warped pining.
What she hadn’t counted on was how his taunt of her past could inflict such pain. But it was her future that worried her more. What would happen when it came down to the face-off between her and Jack over the chip? Maybe, she worrying needlessly. They might not even make it that far before they killed each other.
“Forget the Ark,” Yasmin yawned, “I want Nuke.”
She was stretching her arms languorously, and Janet had to blink twice. Yasmin, liberated of the ghoulish shroud and clad in the western-style jeans and red tie-dye crop – and with her ebony hair cascading to her hips, was the apex of femininity. Compared to this, how could Jack find her own scrawny self sexy?
I look like one of those hairless Mexican Chihuahuas! Barf!
She noticed Sam couldn’t take his eyes off Yasmin. He had climbed into the 4x4’s passenger side and was obviously eager for her to join him. Sam bothered Janet. Too easy-peasy. And he had provided the access to the Seismograph truck like conjuring a magic trick. In fact, he had magically appeared before Jack and conjured up Tex all too easily. So with which side was he embedded? Al Qaeda, the PSO, the Yemen Tribal Alliance, some international intel, or was he, worse, a renegade op like Nuke?
In less than half an hour, they were within telescopic sight of the Queen of Sheba’s Bara’an Temple. From the stash of supplies in one of the 4x4’s toolbox, she withdrew the A-47 and crossed to a slight rise, where she slid to her stomach and, propping the assault rifle, scanned the Temple site through the mounted telescope. The other three dropped along side her.
“A few years ago,” Yasmin on her left murmured, “a team of international archeologists began to unearth the palace with its columns and altars.”
“Why did the excavation stop?” Jack asked in a hushed voice.
“No one knows. But suddenly visits were limited to a distance and always accompanied by patrols. The Yemeni government attributes it to the violence and unrest that has increased since the Arab Spring.”
“I think it’s because the government wanted to discourage research into pre-Islamic history,” Sam muttered.
So, it was here that Saba, the mightiest kingdom of ancient Arabia, flourished. But its queen had left, taken her court and decamped to Ethiopia. Why? Janet move the scope in minute degrees over the broad stone platform that overlooked the interior of the temple. The answer to the mystery had to be somewhere there in those ruins, partially encompassed by the sixty-foot high oval-shaped wall. At the temple’s center, five huge rectangular columns jutted to the sky. A sixth monolith had broken off, appearing a mere stump among the other five.
Her scope still moving in snail-like increments, she asked, “What was this temple used for?”
“It’s called the Throne of Bilquis,” Yasmin said. “It’s 3000 years old, built more than eight-hundred years before the birth of your Christ, and was used for some kind of astronomical study. ”
“It was aligned to position with the celestial bodies,” Jack said. “The sun, and moon, and stars. Star-worshippers from Turkey to Yemen with evidence of a level of sophistication and knowledge of astronomy went on special pilgrimages to the pyramids of Giza.”
“Jack’s right about the star worshippers,” Sam said. “The name Sheba is even derived from the ancient Egyptian word for star. ”
Janet shifted her sites beyond the temple, looking for a patrol. “And that portion of wall over there, in the distance?”
“A sluice gate,” Yasmin said. “A remnant of the Great Dam of Marib. It’s famous along with the Seven Wonders of the World. By controlling periodic monsoon floods, it allowed gardens to grow here in the desert, and it’s said that trees were so ripe that fruit fell from them continuously.”
Janet shifted her scope from the mountains in the far distance to the expanse of beige sand between the dam and the temple and then closer in. Overnight the breeze has whisked the area nearest the temple smooth of footprints, if there had been any. Soft sand wouldn’t keep a track sharply defined very long, anyway. She pushed to her knees. “Let’s go take a look.”
Sam, silent the whole time, took the lead, burrowing under a mishmash of barbed wired and sidestepping a plastic water bottle, bleached and cracked. The sun destroyed everything. Circumventing the excavated portion of the temple wall, he crossed the marble-patterned floor to kneel before the main altar stone. He appeared to be studying
some ancient hieroglyphics inscribed into its four corners.
“You can read this?” Jack asked.
“No one really can,” Sam said softly, as if in awe. “Not all of it anyway. I’m proficient in Greek, Phoenician, Hebrew, Aramaic, even Proto-Canaanite . . . but this, this is Sabaen script – and a dialect I don’t fully recognize. The Sana’a library has one of the world’s best collections of ancient manuscripts, but nothing in them resembles this. The Sabaen language fell into disuse a millennium ago. Only scatterings of texts, like this incised one, have survived.”
He glanced up at Jack. “You’re right about the temple complex being involved with the sun, moon, and stars. But this temple is dedicated to the adoration of the Sun, and I know this will surprise you, The Sun represented the mother, Sheba. The Moon in this case was the father, Solomon, and Menelek was the son. Or so some texts claim.”
“And the part you can read?” Janet asked.
Sam nodded at the altar. “Well, this was built over Menelek’s tomb. A decade or so ago, a team of archaeologists found the tomb empty. From the little I can translate, it says, ‘I grieve . . . a mother . . . beloved son . . . underground chamber . . . buried . . . ’ Oh! My! God!”
“What?” she demanded.
He continued to stare, his curly inky hair mopping his furrowed brow. He shook his head, as if to clear it. “If I’m translating it correctly, ‘ . . . buried with the box of El of Israel . . . to here from Jerusalem.’”
Jack caught her eye. “You said to follow the graft and greed. You were right. Nuke didn’t come here to sell off the stone tablet’s corner piece. He came here to loot the Ark, as well.”
“But the archeologists found the tomb below this altar empty,” Yasmin pointed out.
Janet rubbed her forehead. Her version of math wasn’t adding up. “Then if the Ark isn’t here, why would Nuke need to come here?”
Call Me Crazy (Janet Lomayestewa, Tracker) Page 14