City of Jasmine (7 page)

“But civilians never understand that sort of thing! Yes, indeed, it is significant.” After spending another quarter of an hour describing exactly
why
it was significant, she trailed off. “I say, it is nice to have someone really appreciate what we are doing out here.” Mr. Rowan gave a decided belch and covered his mouth with his napkin.

I smiled my most winsome smile at the pair of them, but neither of them seemed inclined to take the thing further. “I would think a dig site would be immensely interesting to visit.” There, if that didn’t coax an invitation, nothing would, I thought grimly.

Miss Green opened her mouth, but Mr. Rowan chose that moment to burp again, this time a little less discreetly, and he lifted his glass of
arak
in my direction. “To desert endeavours,” he proposed. We all clinked glasses and drank deeply. And somewhere overhead in one of the gilded cages a little bird began to sing.

At the sound of the glasses, Halliday turned his head. “I say, what sort of toast is this? Are we celebrating?”

“We are toasting Mrs. Starke’s appreciation of ancient history,” Mr. Rowan proclaimed, his vowels only slightly slurred.

“She does indeed,” Halliday agreed. “What was that bit of poetry you quoted at me? Something mournful about all human things and decay and monarchs?”

He wrestled with the words for a moment before I cut in and repeated the quotation.

“‘All human things are subject to decay, And when fate summons, monarchs must obey.’”

Mr. Rowan nodded into his
arak.
“Donne, isn’t it?”

“Dryden,” I corrected, baring my teeth in a smile. He smiled back and I saw his own teeth were almost aggressively yellow.

Miss Green flapped a hand. “All those metaphysical poets—they all run together in one’s head after a while.”

“Dryden wasn’t metaphysical,” I told her quickly. “He was Restoration.”

“Was he?” Her tone was polite, but she was clearly bored talking of poetry.

Mr. Rowan perked up. “I know a bit of poetry.” He cleared his throat. “‘There once was a man from Nantucket—’”

Miss Green cut him off before he could finish, but Aunt Dove leaned over, her expression consoling. “Don’t worry, Mr. Rowan. I like a good dirty limerick myself. Have you heard this one?” She launched into a verse I didn’t dare let her finish, but before I could stop her, Halliday cut in smoothly with a little laugh, changing the subject slightly.

“I’m not surprised at Mr. Rowan knowing only limericks. Archaeologists are scientists, Mrs. Starke. You’ll seldom find stonier ground to sow the seed of poetry than that.”

Mr. Rowan gave him a thin smile. “I don’t know. I should think a bureaucrat would be even more lacking in imagination.”

Halliday smiled in return. “I daresay you’re right, Mr. Rowan. After all, an archaeologist must look at a handful of clay bricks or crushed pots and be able to recreate the past. I suppose that requires a prodigious imagination.”

Aunt Dove raised a glass. “In my experience, all souls are receptive to poetry provided they are sufficiently lubricated. To
arak
and the Restoration poets,” she pronounced.

We toasted them and the conversation turned to war reparations and the moment to invite myself to the dig passed fruitlessly. I shredded a pastry in my fingers as I listened to the others talk. And, upon my most recent revelation, drank several glasses of
arak
in quick succession. After a long while, Mr. Rowan’s chin slid to his chest as he gave an audible snore.

Miss Green gave a low chuckle. “Time to see this one to his lodgings, I think. It’s never a party until someone’s drunk too much
arak.
” She waved off our efforts to pay our share of the dinner, insisting it was an honour, and we were bowed out of the restaurant by the sleepy staff.

We delivered the archaeologists to their modest lodgings—academic expeditions were not well enough funded to permit them to stay anywhere more exclusive—then Halliday saw us safely to our hotel, although he made a hasty exit when Aunt Dove mentioned her stamp collection. He gave me a meaningful look as he took his leave, and I smiled warmly at the lingering feeling of his hand on my shoulder.

Aunt Dove and I said good-night and went to our rooms. I washed and put on my nightdress and opened the pierced shutters to the spill of silvery moonlight. From the high ivory minaret of a nearby mosque, I could hear the muezzin’s call to prayer, the
Salat al-Isha,
the evening invocations that remembered God’s presence and dwelt upon the quality of Allah’s mercy.

I turned down the lamp until it was the merest suggestion of light, a pinprick of something that was not quite darkness, and slid into bed. The call faded away, and after a while I heard the bells of a Christian church chiming in the night. A chill breeze passed over my face, ruffling my hair. Suddenly, some sense of otherness roused me, a shadow that detached itself from the wall and moved close to my bed.

I had kept my hand under the pillow, and as the figure moved, I curled my fingers around the grip of the tiny mother-of-pearl pistol Aunt Dove had given me in Italy. With one smooth gesture, I leaped up to a sitting position, opening the lantern and levelling the pistol at Mr. Rowan. And when I spoke, my voice was perfectly calm.

“Hello, Gabriel.”

Five

To his credit, Gabriel didn’t look surprised. “You expected me.”

“Of course I did. I even did you the courtesy of leaving the shutters open.”

He flicked a glance to the window. “Damn. And I went to all the trouble of picking the locks, too.”

He turned back to me. “You may as well put the gun down, you know. You won’t shoot me.”

“You seem very sure of that.”

“Well, it isn’t so much that you won’t shoot me as that you can’t.” He opened his hand and a palmful of bullets fell onto my coverlet.

“Damn you.” I put the gun down and crossed my arms over my chest. “Very well. I suppose we can be civilised about this. Make yourself comfortable. That disguise must be painful.”

“You’ve no idea.” He straightened, rolling his shoulders back and shedding the archaeologist’s stoop for the beautiful posture I remembered so well. The shadow he threw on the wall behind him grew as he eased himself up to his full height. He loosened the mouthpiece, with its terrible yellow teeth, and shoved it into his pocket before taking out a small tin and his handkerchief.

“You might not want to watch this part.”

“I’m not squeamish,” I told him, which we both knew was a lie. But I was curious, and I watched the process with fascinated horror.

Slowly, carefully, he reached up to his eyes and levered out a pair of almond-shaped lenses that covered the whole eyeball. I put out my hand and he gave me one to inspect. I held it to the light, marveling at the thinness of the glass and the delicacy of the painted brown iris. “Clever,” I told him as I handed it back. “It’s the one thing I couldn’t figure out about the disguise.”

“They’re hideously uncomfortable and most of the time I wear coloured spectacles, but in close company I take the precaution of covering up my own,” he said blandly, batting his lashes. He was entirely correct about that. They were remarkable eyes, and no one, having once seen them, would forget them.

“The beard is appalling,” I pointed out.

“Quite disgusting. I’m always getting bits of food stuck in it, but it’s entirely my own, I assure you,” he said, tugging at the hairs on his chin.

I got out of bed and went to him, standing so close I could see the first tiny lines just beginning to etch themselves at the corners of his eyes, lines he had not had the last time I had seen him. Slowly, deliberately, I drew back my hand and slapped him as hard as I could across the face.

He rocked back on his heels, turning his head back slowly. He was smiling.

“I entirely deserved that.”

“I just wanted to make sure you weren’t a figment of my imagination.”

“Satisfied now? I am flesh and blood, as you can see,” he added, daubing the blood away from his lip.

I went to the bed and sat with my back against the pillows.

“When did you figure it all out?” he asked in a conversational tone.

“I knew you’d sent the photograph yourself when I found the banknotes.
REAPERS HOME.
It’s an anagram of the inscription on my wedding ring—
hora e sempre.
Really, Gabriel, a child could have cracked that. I hope you haven’t been spending your time composing codes for an international spy ring. You’d be something worse than useless.”

He gave me a ghost of a smile, the same buccaneer smile that had gotten him into and out of more trouble than most men see in a lifetime. “Have a heart, love. I was in a hurry. Besides, I thought you’d enjoy a little cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

He swayed a little on his feet. “Are you still intoxicated?” I asked pleasantly.

“Not much. I vomited most of it as soon as I could get to my bottle of
ipecacuanha.
Nasty stuff, but it does the trick. Got rid of what was left in my stomach, but there was a fair bit of it already in my blood. God, I loathe
arak.
”

“You did a tremendous job convincing me otherwise.”

“I wasn’t trying to convince you. But it seemed a good idea to persuade your associates that I was precisely what I claimed to be.”

He swayed again, and I drew up my feet. “Oh, for God’s sake, sit down before you fall over and hurt yourself.”

“You always were thoughtful,” he said, giving me that small smile again as he settled himself at the foot of the bed. His shadow still loomed on the wall behind him, larger than life and inky black.

“It’s not kindness. I just don’t fancy mopping up your blood. Now, where should we begin?”

Gabriel hesitated. “I know I owe you the whole story. But now isn’t exactly a good time.”

“I think I deserve more than evasions, Gabriel.”

His jaw tightened. “As I said, I am aware of what I owe you, Evie. Believe me when I tell you I am not in a position to explain, at least not yet.”

“Believe you? Veracity isn’t precisely your strong suit. You faked your own death,” I reminded him.

“I had no choice.”

“So you say.” My voice was pleasantly neutral and a good deal calmer than I felt. “I should so like the chance to make up my own mind about that.”

He sighed. “I can’t discuss it just yet. I’m still making sense of it all myself. The less I involve you the better.”

I rolled my eyes heavenward. “Then what am I doing in Damascus, Gabriel? Sending me that photograph to lure me here was your doing. The banknotes and the song at the restaurant were arranged to show me I was on the right track. And now you won’t explain why?”

“I can’t,” he said simply. “I know it’s too much to ask you to take my word for it, but I can’t explain any of it yet.”

“Then why am I here? And perhaps more to the point, why are you here?”

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I want to make amends.”

“Amends? Gabriel, you make amends when you play the wrong suit in a game of bridge. You cannot possibly make amends for faking your own death.”

“Fine,” he growled. “Call it atonement, then. Penance. I did a terrible thing to you and it’s in my power to make it right, or—” he hurried on as I opened my mouth “—as right as I can. Look here, I’m not asking for forgiveness. What I did is so far beyond that it would be laughable to suggest you could ever find it in your heart, and God knows, I don’t deserve it. But I want the chance to do something for you.”

“There is nothing on earth you could
possibly—
”

He held up a hand. “Yes, there is. I’ve acquired something...valuable. But you’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Take your word for it? Not bloody likely! Besides, if you have something for me, why not bring it here—” I broke off. “Oh, my God. You can’t bring it because you’re involved in something illegal. And that’s why you faked your own death five years ago, isn’t it? You’re a
criminal.
”

He winced. “
Criminal
is such an ugly word. And a subjective one.”

I opened my mouth to blast him, but he held up a hand. “Let’s not quarrel, pet. I haven’t the stamina for it just now.” He gave me an appraising look. “I must say, you’re taking this all much better than I expected,” he said, his tone mildly amused.

“What did you expect? Hysterics? Violence?”

“I don’t know what I expected,” he said quietly. “But you were a flighty girl when I saw you last, not this cool, composed woman who travels with a loaded pistol and plans for midnight visitors.”

I set my chin mulishly. “I’ve grown up, Gabriel. I had to.”

“Another sin to drop at my door,” he said lightly. But his eyes were bleak and he looked away. When he spoke again, his tone was brisk. “I can’t stay long. Matters are...complicated. I have to get back to the dig site and sort a few things out.”

He reached into the breast pocket of his filthy khaki shirt. He drew out a small tin tobacco box and opened it, rifling through an assortment of oddities until he unearthed a grubby bit of paper. He handed it over, but I hardly liked to touch the thing it was so disgusting. “That’s the man you’ll need to see in London after I’ve brought you what it is I have to give. He will give you the money—and it will be a substantial amount,” he added.

I placed the dirty paper carefully on the bedside table and gave him a level look. “Why me?”

It might have been easier for him if he’d looked away, but that sharp blue gaze never wavered. “Because I hurt you. As I said, this will make amends.”

“And you can scrape me off your conscience, is that it?”

He went on, still never taking his eyes from my face. “I’ve no one I can trust. Except you.”

I shook my head. “You’ve no one in the whole world you can trust except the wife you abandoned five years ago? Gabriel, that might well be the saddest thing I have ever heard.”

He flashed me his buccaneer smile. “You have no idea. Now, will you help me?”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Just sit tight in Damascus. I’ve stashed my little find for safekeeping. When I am able to retrieve it, I’ll bring it here. The rest is up to you.”

“How long will it take you? I can only stay in Damascus a fortnight. I have obligations,” I told him, thinking of the tour I had quite possibly wrecked for the sake of what might be nothing more than a chase of the wildest, goosiest variety.

“I’ll leave first thing in the morning for the dig. A day out, a day to get my hands on the item and two days back into the city. I will deliver it to you by the end of the week,
inshallah,
” he added.

“
Inshallah?
My God, you have changed. You were an agnostic the last time I saw you.”

His smile was grim. “I’ve learned to hedge my bets. If I don’t show up by the start of next week, forget I ever contacted you. Just go on about your business and get out of Damascus. I’ll find another way to get the thing to you. If that’s the case, I want you to go on, sooner rather than later.” He rose to his feet in languid motion, his shadow stretching as he died.

“How did you know where to find me?” I asked. “Where to send the photograph?”

“Everyone knows the name Evangeline Starke. You’re famous.” He reached into his pocket for the horrid lenses and slipped them into his eyes. Next came the mouthpiece and then the stooped posture. “By the end of the week,” he promised. He slid into the darkness and left, so quietly I might have imagined he had been there at all.

There was not even a crease where he had sat on the coverlet. Only the handful of bullets he had slipped from my pistol betrayed that anyone had been there at all. He might as well have been a ghost, I thought, as I blew out the lantern. Except I had made him bleed. It was a very small consolation.

* * *

The next few days were torturous. Aunt Dove and I visited more of the tourist sites, posing for photographs in all of the
souks
and palaces and outside of mosques. We met Syrian gentlemen from the interim government and their veiled wives; we dined with French advisors and lunched with British expatriates. It ought to have been a whale of a time, but I kept one eye on the calendar, watching each day creep past in a blur of stone streets and perfumed courtyards. Halliday was often in attendance, always attentive to Aunt Dove, but clearly seeking us out for my company. From time to time his hand brushed mine or he let his gaze linger a moment too long for comfort. The air was thick with possibility and things unsaid. But for the moment I was content not to say them. Gabriel occupied far too many of my thoughts to spare any good ones for another man. Not yet. Not until I had laid his ghost once and for all.

My greatest consolation was the reappearance of Rashid the morning after the dinner party. Aunt Dove and I descended to the main court to find him there, waiting patiently as a dog at the foot of the stairs. He offered no excuses for his absence, but his praise for Aunt Dove was so fulsome, she was eating out of his hand in a matter of minutes. He put himself in charge of Arthur Wellesley, letting the little parrot ride on his shoulder through the streets and feeding him titbits of fruit and teaching him Arabic phrases. He somehow made himself a part of our ragtag household, and he spent just as much time making himself useful in our rooms or running errands as he did acting as our tour guide.

As the days passed, my mood sank lower and lower, and Aunt Dove took me aside to give me a boots-up-the-bum speech while Rashid cleaned out Arthur’s old cage. He had just brought the parrot a ghastly new cage from the
souk,
a filigreed affair so heavily gilded it looked like something out of an Arabian Nights fantasia. I thought it was horrid, but Aunt Dove merely cooed at him and tipped him lavishly for his thoughtfulness. He set about clearing out the old one and laying out seed and water in Arthur’s new quarters while the bird had a snack on Aunt Dove’s turban.

She pulled me down next to her on the divan, plucking Wally’s latest letter out of my fingers as she pitched her voice low. “Now, dear, you’re a handsome girl. Everyone says so. It is time to close the deal,” she advised me.

“I beg your pardon?”

She waved her hands, scaring Arthur from his dish of seed onto her head. “Damn the kaiser,” he muttered irritably from the top of her turban.

“My darling,” Aunt Dove continued, “Halliday is a patient man.
Too
patient. He’s let you call the tune and he’s danced it. Now, I’ve warmed him up for you, but I can’t keep stringing him along. It’s time for you to give up the goods, Evangeline.”

I choked down my surprise. “What did you have in mind?”

She shrugged. “Heavens, child, you’ve been married. I should think you know how to get things started. Show him you’re
open.
Men are the dearest creatures, but none of them is very bright. If you want one, you’ve got to show him. Be direct!” She paused, her eyes brightening. “Do you have a nice collection you could invite him up to see? Coins? Cigarette cards?”

“I’m sure I could think of something,” I said faintly.

She patted my hand. “That’s my girl. Now we’ve cleared the air, I think you ought to have a treat. With Rashid’s help, I’ve arranged something quite special, quite special indeed.”

I narrowed my eyes. Aunt Dove had a unique notion of what constituted a treat. It might be anything from a mule ride to the rim of a volcano to a baby crocodile in the bathroom.