The Edge of Dawn (4 page)

Narice could see the old men assessing her. One man, the escort, had outright skepticism on his hawk-nosed face. Narice turned away from his burning gaze and refocused her attention on the woman in the chair. “Do I have a choice in any of this?”

Although Narice couldn't see beneath the veil, she sensed the woman smile. “Certainly you have a choice,” she said. “You can stay and be my guest, or opt to leave, in which case you will be killed.”

Narice stiffened. Her eyes flew to Saint, but his were trained on The Majesty.

The woman explained in a kind yet steel-edged voice, “We're not playing a child's game here, Ms. Jordan. The people who murdered your father are my enemies as well, and they will stop at nothing to attain their goals. If you leave here and fall into their hands, they can use you against me. If you are dead, they cannot.”

It was if Narice had fallen down the rabbit hole and awakened in a North African version of Wonderland. On the throne sat the Red Queen, and Narice had the misfortune of being Alice. Narice had no idea what this
knowledge
The Majesty referred to consisted of, or the identities of the people responsible for her father's death, but in order to find out, Narice needed to be alive. “Then I will be honored to be your guest.”

The Majesty nodded. “I knew you had the mettle for this journey, Ms. Jordan, though some around me had their doubts.”

The last few words were obviously a jab at someone because it set off a lot of tight jaws amongst the men in white, especially the escort with the hawk's face.
This is not a sister to be messed with,
Narice thought.

The Majesty clapped her hands and a young woman wrapped in emerald green robes appeared from behind the thin curtains. She bowed respectfully to The Majesty, who said in return, “Fulani, take Ms. Jordan and make her comfortable. I will call for her in time.” The Majesty spoke then to Narice. “You are in good hands.”

Fulani, who appeared to be in her twenties, then turned and said to Narice. “Please follow me, Ms. Jordan.”

Narice gave Saint a questioning look. He nodded almost imperceptibly, so she followed Fulani through the fluttering transparent draping and deeper into the suite.

Once there, she was shown into a bedroom that had a large adjoining bath complete with an onyx Jacuzzi tub.

Fulani said, “It is our custom to bathe before having an official audience with The Majesty, so I will draw you a bath.”

Narice had showered this morning, but after her harrowing adventures, the prospect of a long soak in a Jacuzzi was just what the doctor ordered. Being the head of a school whose pupils came from all over the globe, Narice was very cognizant of custom and the value in respecting different cultures. If she had to bathe in order to get the information she needed about why her father was killed and to keep the Red Queen from screaming, “Off with her head!” then she would take a bath. “Why is your Queen called The Majesty and not Her Majesty,” Narice asked Fulani.

“Our title has no gender. The ruler is The Supreme, The All, The Anointed. The Majesty,” she said simply.

Narice thought she understood now. “How long have you been with the queen?”

“Fourteen years. I began service when I was six. The Majesty has made it possible for girls like me to attend school. At home, girls are forbidden.”

“So, she has been good to you?”

“Yes, she has. Now, I must see to the bath.”

And what a glorious bath it turned out to be. After sipping on a cup of herbal tea, Narice eased into the warm scented water and just knew she had died and gone to heaven. The temperature was perfect, the scents relaxing. She leaned her head back on the little terry pillow Fulani supplied and closed her eyes.

On the other side of the wall, Saint lay on his stomach on the bed. The towel over his butt was all he had on in order to facilitate the oiling and massaging of his now clean but tired body by two of The Majesty's female servants. The years of sneaking and hiding and running and skulking were starting to catch up with him physically. The leg he'd broken in Tibet ten years ago now ached every time the weather changed. His left shoulder, dislocated five years ago in a bar fight in Mexico, had been set, but was never the same since. On his thirty-six-year-old body were knife wounds from Jamaica, stitches from Portugal, and the remnants of a bullet he'd taken in Thailand to go along with an international collection of long-ago healed bruises and contusions. Saint was a mercenary. His specialty—intelligence. He began his career as member of the U.S. Army and had climbed the ranks to the top of his field by way of the many-acronymed clandestine agencies that operated under the official government radar. Eight years ago, he officially retired, taking with him his reputation for stealth, discretion, and success. He was now a highly paid freelancer; hired by governments, the U.S. included, multinational corporations,
and private citizens for shadowy jobs big and small. It was a life Saint enjoyed and still got a rush from, even if he did sometimes feel like he was getting too old. Like now.

When the call came in about this job for The Majesty, he'd had been in the jungles of Belize tracking a band of grave robbers on behalf of the Belize Antiquities Ministry. The thieves had made off with the treasures found in a newly discovered Mayan temple, and the Ministry wanted them back. Saint and a small band of the country's soldiers found the men, but not before suffering through ten days of sleeping on the ground, eating bad food and fighting insects the size of pigeons.

Now, less than twenty-four hours later, he was here, the tiredness of the Belize jungles being stroked away by soft female hands and his body responding in typical male fashion. He shifted his position a little to accommodate his arousal. He'd given The Majesty the letter sent to her by the President, and afterwards, she'd made it clear that the women were at his disposal, but he'd have to take a rain check on the offer; the President and his advisors were sure The Majesty had a mole in her entourage reporting her every move back to the generals ruling her country, so he needed to be clearheaded in order to assess the players in this drama. Knocking boots with the two doe-eyed lovelies now working their hands slowly up and down the backs of his thighs and legs would leave his senses dulled and lazy.

He also had the curvy Ms. Jordan to keep an eye on. He wondered what it would be like to have her hands giving him this massage. He imagined her hands would be firm yet soft. In his mind's eye he could feel the way she'd knead, then stroke him. The arousal resulting from that fantasy made him adjust his position again. He had no intentions of turning the fantasy into reality, though. Had he met her under different circumstances he might not mind exploring the intricacies of Narice Jordan, but this was a job and he took his work seriously. She was hard not to think about, however. The question she'd asked The Majesty about choices hadn't really surprised him. He already knew that Narice Jordan was no shrinking violet. For a woman who'd been kidnapped twice last night, she'd shown steel beneath all that designer wear. On the other hand, The Majesty's answer to Narice's question hadn't been a surprise either. Of course, he wasn't going to allow anyone to take Narice's life, but The Majesty had been correct about the ruthlessness of the other side. If Narice were to fall into their hands, they'd get the information they were after, then kill her.

So, as tired as he was, Saint was about to embark on another adventure, this time with a curvy headmistress he had no business fantasizing about.

 

Dressed in a traditional dress that Narice thought looked very much like a sari, she followed Fulani to the room where the audience would be held. The dress
was drab brown, but Narice could smell the rich scents of the oils and perfumes the women had worked into her skin. They'd covered her hair with a long cotton scarf the same shade of the dress. Fulani had even supplied Narice with a pair of soft black shoes. Narice looked like a wren on the outside but beneath her clothing, all the pampering and oiling made her feel like a Bird of Paradise.

Narice saw that The Majesty, and the hawk-faced escort were already seated on the brocaded pillows that covered the floor of the large room. Fulani exited silently. Beside The Majesty was a small table. On it sat a sparkling white china tea service. Saint was there too, wearing his dark glasses and dressed in a simple brown tunic and a matching pair of loose-fitting trousers. Narice noted his brown socks as she sat on one of the pillows near him. She wondered what he and The Majesty had talked about.

The Majesty said, “Ah, Ms. Jordan, you honor us by wearing the
cha
so elegantly.”

Narice knew from talking with Fulani that
cha
was the name of the dress she had on. Fulani also told Narice that The Majesty never allowed herself to be upstaged by another woman in any way, thus the reason Narice had been given the simple brown gown. The Majesty on the other hand was grandly dressed in a
cha
of embroidered purple silk that on close inspection appeared shiny from age and wear.

The Majesty then introduced the man at her side.

“Ms. Jordan, this is my prime minister. He is named Farouk.”

Narice inclined her head his way. She remembered the stormy look he'd given her earlier. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

He nodded back. “Welcome, Ms. Jordan.”

The Majesty said, “Now, we will have tea and discuss our problem.”

She had a servant pour everyone a cup and then she asked, “Ms. Jordan, let me begin by telling you about the Eye and how it ties to my country, Nagal. The Eye originally belonged to Makeda, the woman the Old Testament calls the Queen of Sheba.”

Narice was surprised by that and wondered how The Majesty knew Sheba's given name.

The Majesty was continuing, “When Makeda journeyed to King Solomon's court, she brought him many gifts. One of which was a brilliant blue diamond we now call the Eye of Sheba.”

The Majesty paused and her golden eyes turned on Narice. “How well do you know your Bible, Ms. Jordan.”

“Probably not as well as I should.”

She smiled softly. “Makeda returned home carrying Solomon's child. She bore him a son and she named him Ibn-al-Hakim, which means
son of the wise man.
In the Bible he is called Melenek, and is said to have stolen the Ark of the Covenant.”

Narice knew the Ark had been given to the Israelites by God. Her only other reference to the icon was the
movie
Raiders of the Lost Ark.
She shook herself and settled her attention back on the queen.

“Our legends say Melenek took something else, too. The Eye. Through time and marriage it found its way into my family. It became the symbol of the Nagal monarchy, and our tie to the great queen Makeda.”

Narice found the story fascinating. “So how does my father figure into all of this?”

“When Rommel and his Nazis overran Nagal during WWII, my grandfather, the king, gave the Eye to your father to keep it out of the hands of the Germans.”

Narice knew that her father had served in northern Africa during the war, but he'd never mentioned meeting a royal family.

“Your father promised to smuggle the Eye out of the country and to keep it safe until my grandfather sent for it, but after the war, generals in our army staged a coup. My grandfather was killed in the fighting. His heir, my father, was executed shortly thereafter. My grandmother, mother and I were forced to flee our home or suffer the same fate.”

Narice asked, “Where did you go?”

“Paris, where my mother had relatives.” She quieted for a moment as if thinking back, then said, “I am the last of the Nagal royal line. Over the years the old generals were replaced by new ones, but they all cared more about power than the people.”

“Why do you need the Eye?”

“Because according to the prophecy, when the Eye is returned to its home prosperity will return as well.”
“And you believe my father has had it all this time?”

“We believe so, yes.”

Farouk leaned across the table and stated bluntly, “And now, we want it returned.”

Narice held his glare. “Fine. Just tell me where it is.”

Saint weighed in for the first time. “Nobody knows. Everybody assumes your father hid it somewhere for safekeeping.”

Narice wasn't convinced. “He never mentioned anything to me.”

“Are you certain?” The Majesty asked.

“Very.”

Farouk asked tightly, “If he did hide it, where might it be?”

Narice shrugged. “I have no idea.”

The prime minister's face said he didn't believe her, but Narice had no control over what he believed.

Saint asked, “What about his acquaintances, friends, would they be of any help?”

Narice shrugged again. “Uncle Willie might know.”

“Where's he live?”

“Toledo.”

The Majesty asked, “This Uncle Willie is your blood?”

Narice shook her head. “No, but he was my father's best friend. If Daddy told anyone about this it would be Willie. They served in the army together?”

“Then we start the search there,” Saint declared.

The Majesty seemed pleased. “A starting point.”

Narice wasn't sure, but she kept it to herself. “So, who is Ridley, and how is he involved?” Narice remembered how terrified she'd been in the cab.

Farouk's pale brown face twisted with distaste. “He serves the generals as their prime minister. He is after the Eye, too.”

Narice hoped to not run into him again. “Ridley recognized your voice, Saint. He must know you well.”

“He does,” was all he said.

Narice studied him and wondered what he'd meant, but his tone let her know she'd get no further explanation, at least not now, so she didn't press him. She did have another question, though, and hoped someone had an answer. “What about my father's death. Do you know who set the fire?”