Finding Sheba (Omar Zagouri Thriller Book 1) Read online

They arrived at the base of the first hill, and the horse slowed, fighting for sure footing among the jutting rocks. Then suddenly the horse stopped.

  “Move!” Nicaula shouted. She jabbed its ribs with her heels, but the mare took a step backward. She stared at the sweaty beast and its heaving sides; it had never failed her before. She climbed off just as the soldiers and their horses reached her. Azhara was among them; she dismounted and rushed to Nicaula.

  But Nicaula held up her hand. Her mare’s ears were back and its nostrils flared. She turned to look up the slope. The horse refusing to travel the hill could mean only one thing: it smelled destruction. Nicaula pressed her lips together and gathered her robes, starting up the incline. She moved as quickly as possible, followed by several soldiers, and picked her way along the rocky terrain. When she reached the pinnacle moments later and looked over the shallow valley, she nearly fell to her knees.

  An array of lifeless limbs and dozens of twisted bodies stretched across the desert floor. The stench of death rose from the parched earth as if the sand were rejecting all that was foreign. No doubt the king’s lifeless body lay among the dead. “Father,” she whispered. Bile stuck in her throat as she scanned the body parts that lay desecrated across the desert floor and up the slope of the next dune.

  Azhara joined her, crying out when she saw the bodies.

  “Who would dare do this?” Nicaula moaned, holding her veil to her nose. Her heart twisted in disbelief and sorrow as she thought of her father journeying this way home.

  She touched the necklace at her throat. “The ring of Sheba,” she said, turning to Azhara. “Father has the ring that carries the Sheba symbol of the snake and lily, like my necklace. Search the fingers for it, and then we can truly know . . .”

  Azhara took a brave step down the slope—toward the carnage. Within an instant, her knees buckled, and she sank against the rocky hillside.

  Nicaula watched her maidservant violently retch. The other soldiers who’d followed Nicaula waited for her command, their faces ashen. She could never rest until she knew—knew her father had indeed perished. Perhaps he escaped. But the tremble of hope in her breast died almost as soon as it grew.

  Carnage this great spared no one—not even royalty.

  “Before the sun sets, I want each body searched for the ring of Sheba,” she said. The men moved down the hill and methodically started inspecting the bodies.

  Tomorrow the smell would be unbearable; this was her only chance to find out the truth. Touching Azhara’s shoulder as she passed, Nicaula descended the slope and walked to the first fallen soldier. The young man’s head had been nearly severed, but his other limbs were intact. Without touching the corpse, she had full view of both his hands. No adornment could be seen. She walked on, stopping time and time again before each body.

  The ambushed escort party contained at least one hundred members—respectable protection for any king. Most of the dead were servants in coarse tunics, and a few were courtiers—distinguished by their finely woven robes. Her father would not have worn his identifying royal robes in case of a raid just like this one, but there had to be some evidence.

  She passed a woman, whose face was thankfully covered with a mass of hair, when Nicaula felt the urge to pause. Something seemed peculiar about the maidservant. Nicaula stooped next to the body, and then she saw it. The woman’s feet were much too big for any female. And her hands . . . one of them had been cut off. Nicaula rose and scanned the surrounding area, not seeing the missing hand anywhere. Why would the raiders take a severed hand? Unless . . .

  A jolt passed through her heart. It seemed impossible, yet if the king had really tried to conceal his identity . . . With a shaky breath, she bent over the body and lifted the tresses from the dead woman’s face. The heavy brows and prominent nose confirmed her intuition. Here lay her father, disguised as a woman. Kneeling next to him, Nicaula pushed back the heavy wig, revealing his tight, dark curls.

  Her tears came fast, splashing onto his peaceful face. “They took your hand,” Nicaula whispered, her chest feeling hollow as if her heart had been scooped out. “They took the ring—our symbol of royalty.” She moved her fingers to her father’s face and touched his claylike cheeks. Her voice trembled as she said, “I will find the ring, and it will never leave my finger. Then I will make them pay.”

  The soldiers quietly gathered around their new queen as Nicaula bent close and kissed her father’s forehead. “Good-bye, my father, until we meet in the afterlife.” As she gazed a final time upon her father, her despair crashed into anger at his cruel death. There was only one course of action to follow now.

  Nicaula rose, her gaze settling on the assembled soldiers. She was now the queen of Sheba. She spread her arms wide, and the scarlet robe fell away from her forearms, revealing bracelets of gold. “Here the king of Sheba lies in death’s repose. Here we begin our journey of vengeance.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  Northern Jerusalem

  Omar’s heart pounded as he lay on a seedy mattress in the bunk room. The other Palestinian laborers had fallen asleep over an hour ago, but he couldn’t relax.

  He peeled off his undershirt, then climbed off the bed and dropped to the floor. Fifty push-ups should do it. One, two, three . . . His job had come to an end even though the tunnel was not complete. Most likely it never would be. Fourteen, fifteen . . . Like the Israelis, the Palestinians respected the deceased with great reverence. The project would be halted and the tunnel excavation discontinued because of the unexpected discovery of the burial site.

  Twenty-two, twenty-three . . . On his night rotations at guard duty, Omar had been able to slip into the tunnel and install six security cameras along the crevassed ceiling. But now his mission had been foiled.

  When he filed his report, the Israeli government would learn of the discovery. Thirty-four, thirty-five . . . How long before the rest of the world found out? Teams of archaeologists would start crawling all over the area—and Omar would be reassigned. Forty-nine, fifty.

  Breathing hard, Omar still didn’t feel relaxed. He reached for his backpack tucked beneath his mattress and removed the false bottom, locating his satellite phone.

  It would take only a minute to transmit the details to headquarters. Then the news would spread. The media frenzy would be insane. Omar sat on the bed and typed his message as he leaned back on his pillow, waiting for the instrument to transfer the data.

  Job progress impeded. Ancient burial site discovered. Will attract national interest. What are my next instructions?

  One minute passed, then two. He imagined the frantic discussion taking place at headquarters between his boss, David Levy, and his superiors. After a full ten minutes, the phone vibrated, and a reply appeared on the miniature screen.

  Remove the security cameras and report to your post. Transportation will be waiting.

  He dressed in dusty jeans, a light green button-up shirt, and work boots. Then he shoved his meager belongings into his backpack: a change of clothing, a phone, a flashlight, a water bottle, and a couple of protein bars. Omar glanced about the room as he skirted the beds filled with slumbering men. He’d miss their good humor and their lively conversation. And he’d never forget their eyes—filled with generations of sadness. But it was better this way. He didn’t want to see their betrayed expressions when, or if, they ever discovered his true identity.

  It had been a pleasure living among them, and several times he’d felt their pain as if it were his own. Decade after decade, bad seeds had sprouted hate throughout the community. Foolish moves by the government, such as a bombing raid that killed innocent civilians, only multiplied and justified the hatred. Learned hatred that could easily be directed toward me if they knew my real identity.

  Once outside, he made his way through the quiet village and stood on the outskirts of town where the heavy brush concealed the tunnel opening. From his
position he saw the night guard crouched on the ground and a trail of smoke coming from a cigarette.

  In less than an hour, the second shift would begin, and another guard would come. Omar had to remove the cameras, be out of the tunnel, and then be safely on his way to headquarters before then. He strode toward the guard and raised his hand in greeting. “Khalil sent me.”

  The Palestinian squinted upward, his eyebrows together. “Why?”

  “Giving you a break, I suppose.”

  The man released a lazy trail of smoke between his lips, then twisted the glowing stub into the dirt. He stood and let out a huge yawn.

  Omar chuckled and slapped the man’s back. “Sleep well.”

  The Palestinian grinned and walked away, whistling into the night.

  When the guard disappeared into the village streets, Omar moved to a group of ragged palms. Three paces south of the first one, he knelt in the cool sand and began to dig. Moments later he removed a waterproof pouch containing miniature security cameras and installation tools.

  He slipped the pouch into his backpack and hurried to the tunnel entrance with a quick glance behind. Everything looked quiet. Hoping Khalil wouldn’t discover the guard change until Omar was long gone, he edged his way around the spiky branches at the tunnel entrance and flipped on his flashlight. As he walked along the narrow passage, he remembered his friends’ voices reverberating off the stone walls. Laughter, song, and whispered conversations all seemed to haunt the place.

  Omar stopped about ten paces in and shone the beam on the low ceiling. Nestled into a shadowed crevice was the first camera. He clenched the flashlight between his teeth and used the Phillips from his pouch, knowing he’d likely scratch the camera, but time was of the essence.

  He wriggled the Phillips between the stone and the cement anchor that secured the camera. When the cement didn’t give, Omar searched around for a rock to use as a hammer. Then he started the process again—separating the anchor from the ceiling—trying to apply just enough pressure so the camera would be released, but not so much that the stability of the carved ceiling was compromised.

  His arms ached as blood drained from his fingers. He kept his eyes closed to a slit while dry earth rained on his head. “Come on,” he urged as frustration began to choke him. Bit by bit, he chipped the cement away until the camera was released from its bondage.

  “Finally,” he muttered, hoping the next five proved easier. Gripping the flashlight again, he aimed it in front of him and walked along the tunnel, searching for the second. The damp air crept through his cotton shirt, cooling the warm perspiration on his chest. The tunnel narrowed to one meter in width, the height remaining just centimeters below Omar’s height.

  He spotted the second camera, removed it, and continued to the third.

  The dank air grew thicker as he continued through the tunnel. Possibilities floated through his mind. Perhaps they were near an ancient well. It made sense.

  A tomb, a well, a buried civilization.

  Omar checked his watch, and seeing he’d already used up thirty minutes, he hurried to find the fourth camera, which he knew was just around the next protruding boulder. His boots splashed in water as the damp earth turned into a trickling bed.

  He was no geologist, but water running through a tunnel didn’t seem like a good thing—especially in a tunnel with only one entrance.

  By the time he’d reached the sixth and last camera, the water had soaked his boots. Omar steadied the flashlight in his mouth and balanced the Phillips against the anchor. With each strike, the pounding echoed back at him.

  He paused, disconcerted by the sharp echo, and then remembered.

  The tomb.

  The hammering was reverberating off the tomb’s walls.

  Another strike, and the camera released. He turned in the direction of the tomb and shone his light through the eerie darkness. Omar hesitated; the hairs on his arms rose. If he hurried back, he’d have about five minutes to spare before the new guard arrived—just enough time to sprint out of sight and be well on his way to the border station.

  Five minutes.

  A tomb that had seen no life for centuries, perhaps millennia.

  Five minutes.

  Omar plunged toward the tomb opening. The rocks shifted below his feet as he climbed through the gaping hole. He removed his boots before stepping onto the venerated ground. Placing a foot onto the cold earth, a shudder passed through his body, as if he had been welcomed and forbidden to enter in the same instant.

  He walked toward the center of the room and stopped before the stone sarcophagus. No doubt royal remains lay beneath the formidable lid, and for a moment, he wondered which king or queen it might be. “Who are you?” he whispered into the inky black.

  The musty air gave no answer. He placed a hand on the pocked surface of the encasing, trying to remember any snippets of the archaeology journals he had read. He had no way of knowing if this tomb was five hundred years old or three thousand. Omar arced the flashlight beam along the walls. As he stepped around the sarcophagus, his foot kicked at a piece of wood, then another.

  Looking down, Omar saw that the pieces he’d been walking on were not wooden. He stooped and turned over a yellowish fragment. A bone. Too big for an animal. Human femur. But why was it not in the sarcophagus? Had the tomb been raided? He swept the light across the littered ground. Dozens of bones lay strewn about.

  Mind reeling, he sidestepped his way to the nearest wall and stared at the paleo-Hebrew writing upon the walls. If he could claim knowledge of one thing, it was languages. Born in Canada to a Jewish mother and a Moroccan father, Omar knew Hebrew, Arabic, and English from his youth. Once in college, he’d mastered several more languages, including Greek and Latin.

  Omar walked along the perimeter, trying to make out the meaning of the crude drawings that also decorated the walls. They were similar to those he’d seen in a documentary on King Tutankhamun, but different too. The figures were rounder, and their clothing consisted of long tunics. Some of the heads were tilted forward. Schooled in biblical Hebrew as any boy with a Jewish mother was expected to be, he scanned the drawings for recognizable letters.

  Moving his light upward, he searched for any familiar names, perhaps Solomon or his father, David. The paleo-Hebrew script predated Hebrew, and the letters were difficult to decipher quickly. His beam stilled. “Who’s Melech Turug?” he whispered. Translated, melech meant “king.”

  Below Turug’s name was another. Melech Amariel. Omar moved the light across the wall. Melech Tambariah.

  Who were these three kings? Pulling out his phone, he snapped several pictures, panning through the room. He hesitated as he saw an ornate inscription through the photo screen. Raising his flashlight, he peered at the unusual assembly of seven palm trees. The center palm was different from the others: instead of having a slender trunk, it looked like a snake intertwined with a flower. Something was familiar about the strange symbol. He zoomed on the center tree and took a picture. Then he checked his watch. Four minutes had passed. He took one more glance about the chamber, wondering what secrets had been preserved for so many centuries—or had it been millennia?

  Jamming his feet into the boots, Omar hoisted the backpack over his shoulder. Adrenaline in overdrive, he ran through the tunnel, boots splashing in the water. His breathing was labored by the time he reached the entrance.

  Omar knelt in the dirt and crawled upward, pushing silently through the dried foliage. Please be late. His stomach dropped when he saw a man pacing several meters away. The man turned, and in the waning moonlight, Omar recognized Khalil. No doubt the boss had been surprised to find the other guard absent. Or had the guard already told the boss that Omar had taken over? If Khalil suspected Omar was in the tunnel, why didn’t he follow?

  His questions were answered almost immediately. Two jeeps with blazing headlights roared around the corn
er of the nearest building.

  Khalil had been waiting for backup.

  Omar reached into his pack and pulled out a smoke bomb. He removed the pin and chucked the metal ball into the air. Khalil turned with a surprised shout, which was soon replaced by coughing and sputtering. Pushing back his remorse, Omar scrambled to his feet and plunged through the billowing gas. He knew Khalil would be fine, but Omar had been instructed to do whatever it took to maintain his cover, no matter the damage.

  Omar sprinted across the cracked earth toward the border station. In order to prevent being shot by Israeli patrol, Omar dialed the station’s number from his phone.

  “Shalom?”

  “Number six-one-four. I’m coming in.” Omar covered the last several hundred meters. The guard stepped from the station and unlocked the metal gate, where a sedan waited. Omar hopped in, barely noticing the driver, and leaned against the cool leather. It’s finally over.

  The dark landscape sped past as the car plunged ahead. Omar had just started to catch his breath when his phone buzzed. “I’m finished for good this time,” he announced into the device.

  “Like hell you are.” The voice on the other end was cold.

  The last thing Omar cared about was impressing his boss, especially since Omar was quitting. He could no longer stand to work for a man who’d stolen his girlfriend. “These people deserve better. They’re treated like small children. Pretty soon they’ll have to get permission to piss.”

  “Save it for someone who cares, Zagouri. When will you be here?”

  Omar released a breath of air and glanced out the window. “Ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be waiting in my office.”

  The phone glowed: “Call Ended.”

  Omar squeezed his hands into fists. It would take all his willpower not to punch out David Levy.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Cairo, Egypt

  Cairo. So this is the place where legends are made, Jade thought as she stepped into Terminal 1. Free at last from hours of cramped travel, she inhaled the furnace-hot air. Seconds later, cigarette smoke assailed her eyes, and she blinked against the stinging. She pulled up one end of the silk scarf from around her neck to cough into it. What had seemed fashionable in the States was obviously out of place here—the Egyptians wore scarves around their heads, not their necks. And from the stares she received from the men, she realized her blonde highlights and pale green eyes were also incongruous with her surroundings.