Her Kind of Trouble (23 page)

The moaning woman ducked behind the privacy screen, where I assumed the toilet was, and threw up. Loudly.

And here I'd thought the hole in my gut couldn't gape any larger. Desperate for distraction, I asked why Samira was there.

"I am…
mu aridin li inhiraf… "
She frowned, trying to work out the words. "Exposure to bad behavior," she decided.

"
Exposed
to… ? What did you do?"

She looked at me blankly. She'd already answered that.

"What were you doing when you were arrested?" I tried.

She shrugged. "Walking."

By the time I got more of the story from her, we also were sitting on the bare floor. As it turned out, a lot of children who were homeless, or begging, or simply truant—like Samira—were arrested on the mere
risk
of going bad. They were supposed to be taken to a children's facility, rather than housed with adults, but it didn't always work out that way. Usually they were only held a few days, she assured me, but sometimes it could last longer.

"Do you have parents? Won't they miss you?"

She shook her head sadly. "They do not come for me here. They be much frightened."

The guard—or
mukhbir
, as she called him—said something sharply at us, which made her flush. She protested in Arabic, and he said something else and leered and laughed.

I glared at him.

He shouted at me.

I didn't look away.

He shouted at me more loudly, and waved some kind of weapon at me. A rubber hose.

I angrily moved my glare from his eyes to his crotch—to the limp hose. Then back to his eyes. I curled my lip in disgust. Then I turned away.

He was screaming at me now, but I didn't look, and finally, after spitting in my direction, he turned away.

"Has he bothered you?" I asked Samira, who was staring in outright awe.

She nodded, and I felt fury stiffening my back.

"Has he
touched
you?"

But here, she shook her head. "He say I am arrested for dirty things," she whispered. "I am not arrested for this. It is only that I do not go to school. He say I can have orange, if I do for him, but I do not do for anybody. I am good girl."

I couldn't help it—I looked at the woman who'd had an orange earlier.

Samira shook her head and smiled a shy smile. "She buy it. Her family bring her money."

Lunch really was just bread and some gelatinous cheese spread. We were left to portion it ourselves. I made sure I got a piece on the suspicion—which proved out—that Samira might not, then gave her mine.

It's not like I had an appetite.

Thankfully, not long after that, a man in a suit came for me. He was clean-shaven, with bright black eyes.

"Magdalene Sanger," he called in English, walking down the main corridor of the jail. "Where is Mrs. Magdalene—"

"I'm Maggi Sanger," I called, pulling myself to my feet. My legs had gone to sleep while I talked with Samira. "Are you here to get me out?"

"I believe something can be arranged, if you sign this." Through the bars, he handed me a sheet of paper on a clipboard.

I took it, looked, and felt even more helpless. A lot of good a Ph.D. did me here. "It's written in Arabic."

"It says that you are innocent of all wrongdoing," he assured me breezily, and offered a pen.

I almost took it. I wanted out so badly. I wanted to check on Rhys, to talk with Lex. I wanted to find the Isis Grail and
go the hell home
. Mostly, I wanted to get out of this smell—it felt like things were crawling on me, even if they weren't. The woman with the cough didn't cover her mouth. The one who was moaning had thrown up again. I really didn't want to have to face that toilet, but time was against me.

I wanted out so badly, I could scream. In fact, my throat
ached
with the need to scream…which was my warning.

Heart racing, I held the clipboard out to Samira. "Can you read this and tell me what it says?"

She glanced at the paper, frowned—and the gentleman in the suit reached through the bars and snatched it away from us. "She knows nothing!"

I felt ill, but I wasn't about to show it. "Get me an English translation, then."

He laughed and shook his head, as if I were joking. "This is impossible, Mrs. Sanger."

"French will do," I offered.

"All you need do is sign at the bottom—"

"Not until I can read it."

And in that moment, from the way his eyes flashed at me in furious frustration, I knew I'd made the right choice. Whatever he wanted me to sign, it wasn't for my own good, or he wouldn't resent my refusal so sharply.

"Perhaps in a few more days you will change your mind," he warned, and stalked away. The guard yelled at me—at least, he seemed to be yelling. Arabic can be a pretty intense language.

I turned my back on the bastard and only then closed my eyes and shuddered. I asked Samira, "Did you see anything?"

"At top it say c-on… " She was searching for the correct translation. "
Confession
."

Son of a bitch! The consequences, had I signed that, were dizzying. This was a lot bigger than a mistaken charge, and I was definitely too far in over my head. Maybe my principles could take the hit after all.

"I changed my mind," I said to the
mukhbir
. Damned right I was selling out. I felt relief to be doing it, too. "I want someone to call my…my husband."

Samira translated, though her presentation was more plea than demand. The guard laughed and turned
his
back on
us
.

Guess I'd missed my chance.

Well, I couldn't just sit here and do nothing, despite my limited resources. They wanted me scared and helpless? They had me more than halfway there! But other women manage to make the best of worse situations than this every day; I could hardly allow myself to do less.

Even these women were daughters of the goddess. So after some thought, I tore a strip of cloth off the bottom of my shirt, dampened it from our pail of drinking water, and went to sit beside the sick woman, the one who'd been moaning, to wipe her face.

She soon quieted. "
Shukran
," she whispered gratefully.

I knew what that meant, even before Samira translated. Her thanks helped put my own problems into partial perspective.

As it turned out, this woman really was a prostitute—a prostitute with morning sickness. I admitted only to being a "teacher"—admitting I was a college professor suddenly seemed unforgivably arrogant. If I'd been born in another country, or to another family, or in another time, who knows what I might have been?

As the afternoon crawled by, I distracted myself further by sharing the "fairy tale" about the Great Queen, her seven powerful daughters, and their magical cups.

"The chalices wait to be found and shared, if ever the world is ready for them," I concluded into the almost silent cell—the only sound other than Samira's quiet translation was that of men, from down the hallway. "They wait to be discovered. They wait to be united. They wait to change the world. And they are waiting still… perhaps—"

The guard barked something at us, but though the others jumped, I deliberately finished—"For you"—and held each woman's gaze for a long moment before I turned to look.

The guard repeated his demand, glaring at me. The other women drew back as if I were suddenly radioactive.

"He say you must go with him," said Samira, worried.

"Why?" I asked.

Her eyes widened. "I cannot ask that!"

"Then why do you think?"

"I do not know! I hope… not… " She flushed.

I met the
mukhbir's
gaze, my suspicions taking on a violent undertone, and asked him. "
Why
?"

He'd had enough of my insolence. Now he was definitely shouting—and unlocking the cell door! I scrambled to my feet, ready to fight back if I had to, but all he did was charge in and grab me roughly by the arm, his words a staccato battering.

"You will come, you disobedient rubbish, you will come because I say,'" translated Samira from behind me, but when the guard turned on her she stopped with a squeak.

Only as I was yanked from the cell did she whisper, "Goodbye, Maggi."

I reached into my fanny pack and pulled out a fistful of small bills, passing them through the bars into her smaller hand, before I was bodily steered away from her.

Toward where?

As much as I was frightened, maybe more than that, I was angry.
Because I say so
? However, I wasn't stupid—or any more stupid than I'd already been, depending on how you looked at my day. I didn't glare directly at the
mukhbir
again, and I didn't twist my arm from his bullying grip.

Yet.

If I'd interpreted Samira's flush correctly, a bigger fight might be waiting for me. I didn't want to tip this bastard off to what fighting skills I
did
have…even if his vehemence practically invited me to use his own force against him.

But I still damn well kept my head up and my shoulders back, no matter how hard he yanked.

I was all the more glad for that posture when the
mukhbir
shoved me into a large room with overhead lights, desks, phones—I'd been here before. It was the booking room. And standing in the middle of it as if he owned the place, tall and broad-shouldered and exuding control…

My eyes met those of Lex Stuart.

And I can't say I was sorry.

All Lex had to do was stare at the
mukhbir
—rather, at his hand on my arm—and the man released me immediately. I didn't blame the guy. Lex was in full monarch mode, murmuring requests—more likely commands—to the suited Arab beside him and simply assuming they would be carried out… or else.

"Maggi," was all he said, his voice dangerous, and he held out his hand.

In other circumstances, I might have demanded a please.

This one time, in this one place, it took all my self-control to walk quietly, instead of lunging across the room and grabbing him by the lapels and begging him not to leave me here. He looked so familiar and so…so
good
! Clean and competent and… and English speaking.

Still, I managed marginal dignity as I crossed to him. But I did give him my hand…the one with his wedding ring on it. His hand closed tightly around mine and somehow, his pulling me closer to him didn't feel hike defeat. His hooded eyes studied me closely, as if looking for damage. Jaw clenched, he murmured, "We're almost ready to go."

Go
? "You bailed me out?" I asked.

"I got the charges dropped."

I didn't bother to ask how. "Who told you I was here?"

His eyes narrowed. "
Not you
."

Okay, so the guard wasn't the only person with whom Lex was angry.

"For what it's worth," I murmured, "they didn't let me call anyone."

Lex's golden gaze didn't waver. "Would you have called me if they did?"

Well, he had me there.

His brows lowered. "Did you even give them my
name
?"

Now I felt guilty about it—I was the one who'd been falsely arrested, and I felt bad for slighting
him
?

Lex swore under his breath, language he wouldn't have used when his mother was alive.

"She must sign this," said his suited companion in truly cultured English. I pried my gaze from Lex, and saw that it wasn't the same man who'd tried to make me sign the disguised confession earlier. This man was taller, older, impeccably groomed, with a thick moustache. His suit was almost as expensive as Lex's. Considering where I'd just spent the last few hours, I felt like a trash heap standing between these two. "It says only that she will not lodge an official complaint."

Funny how he talked to Lex while offering the paper to me. "I've heard that before," I said.

"Magdalene," warned Lex, low in his throat, and I turned on him. In part, because he was wonderfully safe to turn on.

"I
have
, Lex. Not two hours ago, someone tried to get me to sign a confession. How do I know—"

"Because I trust him," he said simply.

Now I searched
his
face…and slowly nodded. If Lex trusted him, that had to be enough.

Not to mention, my throat didn't hurt.

I took the pen the gentleman offered.

"Magdalene Sanger, Mr. Ahmed Khalef," said Lex, belatedly. "Ahmed, this is Ms. Sanger. Ahmed is one of the leading corporate attorneys in
Cairo
, Maggi, and he's worked with my family for years."