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CHAPTER 1
HENRI
If someone had ventured into the museum that night they would have stumbled upon a curiously contradictory sight.
There sat Henri cross-legged on the cold cement floor, his head invisible underneath a 2,000-year-old sarcophagus, and a tangle of cords, tubes, and a laptop computer in a jumble at his feet.
The old caretaker was stuck. His fumbling and fussing with one technology wasn't helping him unravel the other. And at 77 years, his brand of technology was caught in between.
"It's like rocket surgery," he mumbled, peering into the dark access hole under the clay casket. "Or is that brain science, or ..."
There was a problem with the endoscope and turning the little camera. He pushed it deeper into the casket's gloomy cavity. "No, it's a labor of love — patient, painful, excruciating love — I think."
Lying next to him was a laptop he borrowed from Dr. Lincoln. He touched the mouse pad. "Wake up, wake up, are you broken too?" The screen flickered.
"About time. So ... what do we have here?" The image was mostly black with sweeping blue streaks and darting images.
"The camera should be right there, in the cache vault, is that it ...?"
Henri let the camera focus then tried to make sense of the abstract angles and shapes playing across the screen.
"Endoscope," he muttered. "I know what you are." He pushed the insertion tube another inch, finding a corner but pressed up against an obstruction. "I know exactly what they do with you, why are you making this so difficult?"
He backed off a fraction then turned it for a slow look around. The colors and corners of the interior were smooth and finished. "That's a strange attention to detail for something meant to stay closed for eternity," he mumbled.
Henri twisted the tube, directing the camera toward the lower portion of the sarcophagus, the part he couldn't reach before.
"En-do-scope," he said. "Why does the good doc need this in a museum? Yes, yes, the very thing I'm doing here — looking, probing — to find ... to find things meant to stay hidden until ..."
Just then the little lamp cast a sharp cone of light on what appeared to be the curled corner of something like dark brown leather.
"Ah ha!" Henri said, reaching with his foot to turn the laptop for a better view.
"I knew it, I knew it! I'll just bet they wanted me to find this the last, if it is the last —" The scroll was nestled deep in a corner as if wedged there after some violent movement. It was wrapped in the same fashion as the other two, but maybe fatter.
"More story?" he wondered. "It better be ..."
He reached for his penlight and put a beam on the scope's handle controls.
"Okay, okay, what now?" he mumbled. "Here's the what? Suction valve? No, no, what else — angulation — angulation control," he said, and twisted it a fraction. "Angulating — angulating closer, almost there."
He guided the tube forward and the camera obediently turned downward. "Not bad," he said. "Just a little to the right ... down ... a little more ..."
The tools at the end of the scope were agile, but were they strong? Henry put his thumb on a slider switch and watched three tiny prongs extend like grasshopper legs into view, beautifully illuminated so he could guide them exactly where he wanted. He pulled the slide back, closing the prongs on one of the leather ties. With a slight tug, the scroll moved.
"I should have been a doctor," he mumbled, working the scroll to the opening. "If this was a real colonoscopy, I would have just scored my first polyp ... and it's huge."
He pulled gently. "Just like catching fish ... Here's the good doctor's $48,000 hook, and I'm the net."
Carefully dragging the scroll toward the small opening, he reached in and manipulated it this way, then that, and finally the right combination to free his prize. He carefully drew it out and cradled it a moment to examine.
"Ah! Heavier than the others," he noted, and glanced at his watch. "There's still time," and stood to pop his spine back into place and rub life back into his sore muscles. Finding his balance, he shuffled his way to the reading room.
"Here we go again," and slumped into his favorite leather chair. The lamp clicked on, casting a warm glow.
"Identical wrapping, the same leather ties," he said, turning the bundle under the light. "And me, the first human eyes to see this in what, 2,000 years? No, 2,200 years, an odd time in history, a glorious time."
The scroll was packed as the others with the same attention to neatness. "Certainly part of the collection — three scrolls, three stories? I hope so."
He produced his little dental tool and began picking at the knots.
With the last tie released he laid back the leather, then quite by surprise, two small objects rolled out, landing right in his lap.
"What is this?" He picked them up to examine. "Fruit pits? Ha!" He held one to the light. "Somebody's lunch ... quite curious, though — white as snow, I've never seen pits like these. I'll have to look more closely ..." and tucked them into his apron.
Bringing the papyrus into full view, he saw the parchment was aged with spots and wear, but still, beautifully preserved. Henri felt for the leading edge and gently slid his fingers beneath.
"Well, well, my friends," he breathed, "What have you to tell me tonight?"
CHAPTER 2
STEALTH
"My dearest Bassam, come for me, I am taken away to a dark place. It is the end of my life. I have nothing but this script to console — and my thoughts of you. If these words find you when it is too late, let them comfort you for your life without me at your side. — Forever yours, Rasha"
I am Rasha.
It was a year and 259 days after my father's great trek to the east with my beloved Bassam when the bandits came to our Rekeem.
Our watch was only two that night but two others slept. Our men gave no thought to that quiet train of camels and their riders who poured from the Siq. Their lighted torches spoke peace in their casual, friendly waves as they filed quietly into the confines of our sleeping village. It was a large train, lightly fitted out, but at such a late hour, no alarm was assumed.
The strangers smiled with glistening teeth behind shiny black beards, and nodded as they passed. The watch held their torches, noting them strangers who seemed on a familiar errand, and let them pass.
The few who saw their arrival thought them just another trading caravan seeking hospitality. Had the watch considered their lack of baggage and trade goods, that the camels carried only men with swords, my story might be different.
By the end of second watch, more than 200 riders had funneled into our canyon city. None were challenged or checked. Slipping by a multitude of dark dwellings with slumbering residents, the sojourners continued by torch to the far side of Rekeem.
Along the way, others joined — men who were waiting, who emerged from shadows to guide the train into darkened pathways toward the dwellings far beyond the market square. They divided into groups and slipped quietly into blind alleyways and streets, finding in silence their places of rendezvous.
None were awakened by these activities, for such is common in our little canyon home. Night traffic comes frequently enough that no one gave this group any unusual consideration.
I was awake when the train came, seated at a table with a small lamp, writing dreams in my journal — dreams for when my Bassam would return to me.
It was then I heard the rustle of movement and the snorting of camels.
"That's strange," I thought, and extinguished my lamp to watch through parted fabrics.
I could see shrouded men atop camels, waving arms and pointing in muffled discussion under the light of torches. Six of the camels knelt for their riders to slip off. The men turned toward our door, motioning the others to spread out. I could think of no reason for strangers at this late hour except — Did they bring news of Bassam? Or Father?
But to my horror they drew swords and started up our steps. I hurried to awaken Bassam's parents.
"Kateb! Dalal! Get up! Strangers!"
The two had barely risen when the men stepped through the doorway with torches ablaze. Long darting shadows danced everywhere.
Kateb motioned Dalal and me to stay behind, then parted the curtain to confront the men in the main room. He held out his hands in peace, squinting into the light.
"Who are you?" Kateb asked. "What do you want?"
A large man draped in black stepped forward.
"Are you Kateb?" he growled. The grizzled leader had a scar parting the black whiskers on his left cheek.
"I am," he said. "What do you want?"
"We are looking for the daughter of Zafir. Where is she?" he demanded.
Hearing the words, I drew a panicked breath.
"With her mother," Kateb said, "South to Saba', tending to her mother's illness. Three weeks. We expect her back any day."
Dalal and I could hear awful noise of distant fighting in the dark — shouting, screaming, hooves hurrying toward us, awful sounds of an attack.
"What could be happening?" I whispered to Dalal. "Is it an army? Bandits?"
Dalal shushed me and froze to listen.
My mind raced with a thousand questions. First came father's warnings about danger — a network of men who served the Abdali-ud-din in the caravan season. If an emergency comes, he had said, I should flee to his steward, or to his cousin's home, or escape through the Siq. If that failed, notify Al Kalimat.
I hurried for my journal and tore a corner to scribble a message.
"Dalal," I whispered, "Al Kalimat?"
She understood immediately and pulled a leather pouch from a small table. I shoved the note inside and inked the secret emblem of Al Kalimat on its outside — a weighted cross with two dots on the right. I hurried it to the door, and laid it face down partly covered by my shawl.
"If you must get a message to me and can't deliver it safely," my father said, "don't hide it. Evil men will look for things hidden. Leave it in plain sight and mark it with this emblem," and he drew it for me. "If you cannot get to safety, leave what you can and my men will find it."
Just then a torch flooded the hallway and our curtain was ripped aside.
"Come!" a voice ordered. More men squeezed into the narrow corridor.
We obeyed and joined Kateb in front. The many torches made it smoky and my eyes stung.
"You!" the man in black said pointing.
I stayed in the shadow behind Dalal.
The man motioned to another to bring forward a torch.
"Step aside, woman," he ordered.
Dalal shifted, exposing me to their full gaze.
"And who is this?" he asked, pointing at me.
Kateb waved his explanation rapidly. "As I have explained, she's our daughter," he said. "You must travel to Saba' for the daughter of Zafir. Her mother took ill, and ..."
"Shut up old man," he shouted, and shoved Kateb to the wall.
He gestured and one of his own came forward. He was a shorter, younger man who pushed his way from the back. A shawl hooded his head, burying his face in shadow. The grizzled man held the torch near me. I felt the heat of the flame and raised my hand in protest, then noticed the big man had a finger missing, cut off at the middle joint.
"Well?" he ordered.
The shorter one looked at me and then stepped back into the shadow.
"It is she," he said.
Two of the men pushed Dalal aside and grabbed me by the arms and pulled me to the door. I gasped and screamed. Others pushed back at Kateb who stood to resist, shouting protest. I began kicking and fighting and they wrestled me to the entrance.
"No!" I screamed. "No! NO! Help me, Help!"
Behind me I heard a great ruckus erupt in the shadows.
"Hold him!"
"Where are you taking her?"
"Shut up old man."
"No — don't!"
"Oh be quiet woman or I'll kill you."
"Rasha! Rasha!"
I struggled as they dragged me out the door and into the cool of the night. I fought all the way down the steps, screaming to awaken neighbors, the watch, anyone. Then one man threw a hand on my mouth to muffle me. I bit down hard and he snapped it away shouting a cursing oath. He wrapped his arms around me tightly and threw me to the ground, his heavy body landing on top, crushing my breath away. A meaty hand pressed my head against the sandy gravel and a voice shouted, "The rope and rags, quick! "
"This will shut her up," another panted, producing a gag.
I fought against their strength, groaning more against the sorrow of betrayal than my suffocating fight for freedom. That voice, that shadow, that figure in the shroud, how could he do this to us? Why? Why would he come to us hidden with treachery and number himself among such men? And we had trusted him. Was everything a complex lie? Bassam would be so ashamed of you. How could you be the traitor of friend and family and do this to us, Faris?
CHAPTER 3
THE NOTE
Al Kalimat verified — +:
Wadi-Anen to Zafir
A communique to Zafir, to the event of his kidnapped daughter. By my seal, affixed.
Zafir,
We do not rest in the search for your daughter.
The expected notes of ransom were received in 'Adan by courier, and the original is held for your inspection in Rekeem. It is dated the 14th day of Odar, and the text follows:
To the tyrants of Abdali-ud-din, death to you all.
We possess treasure for sale. You may purchase her for 10,000 talents of Egyptian gold in three payments. We will tell you when and where to deliver your pieces of treasure, or we will deliver our treasure to you in pieces.
I am Sutekh
The second note was received in 'Adan by courier, and the original is held for your inspection in Rekeem. It is dated the 1st day of Nison.
To the Tyrants of Abdali-ud-din, death to you all.
You will give to Masaharta and his men a tribute of 1,000 talents of Egyptian gold in leather pouches at a place in Avalites that we will tell you.
If you do not deliver your pieces of treasure we will deliver our treasure to you in pieces.
I am Sutekh
We concur with Al Murrah on the following points:
It is the work of the Tauri of the Pontusl.
There is no reason to doubt their claims of possessing your daughter.
The name Sutekh is Egyptian, an evil god who creates chaos.
They demand the gold in portions, probably to fund a delay tactic, and to guarantee some payments.
Their mention of Avalites leads us to believe she is held in Nub'ah, a tactic to dilute a possible rescue.
They did not send additional communication.
I am your trusted friend and servant at this urgent time, — Wadi-Anen
CHAPTER 4
THE LONG WAY
Shamar shifted in the saddle, making his camel snort in complaint. The shabby beast turned her head with the irritated sneer she'd exhibited these past three weeks. Shamar gave her a firm swat with his riding stick.
"Keep your pace, old girl," he warned, "there's a storm coming, and no room for you in my tent. I might have to eat you, so step lively."
A gust caught Shamar's beard and he tucked it back. It was always windy and cold along the shores of the Egyptian Sea during this season — storms could blow to a frenzy in just moments, turning calm to torrential rains. The coastal paths were pockmarked with standing water, and the camels growled their objection. They opposed the long days of sloshing through the icy puddles. Sensing his camel's hesitancy, Shamar whacked her a good one and she leapt at the sting.
"Forward!" he ordered, and her pace quickened.
Despite his seeming gruffness with the camels, Shamar was perhaps the kindest man who led the caravans. He carried a soft spot in his heart for the beasts that knew no better than the sharpness of his whipping stick.
Shamar couldn't hide his love of the scenery at this part of the trek. The images of distant peaks, mirrored waters, and painted skies along the shoreline were unmatched in the world, yet ever changing. Each day was a new painting of natural beauty.
Shamar filled his lungs with the crisp, salty air. Ahead he saw the next marker, those same old ruins that seemed unchanged over the decades, emerging from the melting fog on the distant shore. The ancient pier guarded an abandoned harbor, once the busiest port on the coast. Was that a thousand years ago, or was it two? Change comes so slowly in these parts, he thought.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Search for Rasha"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Paul B. Skousen.
Excerpted by permission of Izzard Ink, LLC.
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