Secret Soldier (13 page)

And yet, there was more to it than that. She worried for him as he climbed, and not only because she depended on him. She had come to care about him, God help her. It was as ridiculous as it was twisted. He had lied to her, used her, put her life in danger, for heaven’s sake. And yet…

She had to be crazy. The heat had addled her brain.

Chapter Nine

Spike scanned the horizon in vain. Damn. He’d expected to be in Tihrin by now. The flat desert was turning into an area of undulating landscape in front of them, expanses of sand alternating with strips of rockier terrain, hills and valleys carved by wind and longago water, which were harder to walk through with limited visibility. In the dead desert, they could see for miles and miles. Going ahead now, they wouldn’t be able to tell what was behind the next hill or tall sand drift. He didn’t like it. “The camp might have been farther west from the city than I thought.”

Abigail switched the rifles from one shoulder to the other and rolled her neck, keeping pace with him. She hadn’t complained once—not about the heat or the forced march or lack of food.

“Want to trade?” He offered the can. “This one is pretty light.” They were running out of water fast. “I’m fine. Are we lost?”

“Technically, no. We’ll reach civilization sooner or later if
we
head north. But if the camp was directly south of Tihrin we should be able to see—” He listened to the unmistakable sound of an approaching car. “Get down”

She threw herself to the ground at once, and he on top of her to cover her black
abayah
with his camouflage uniform. He threw a couple of handfuls of sand on top of himself for good measure.

The camels came into sight first, about two dozen or so, then the red Toyota pickup truck that herded them. “Bedouins.” He jumped up and waived his kaffiyeh at the two men in the truck’s cab, yelling at them to stop. Unfortunately, they were angled away from him and still too far to hear him over the noise of their vehicle. “Stay down. ” He grabbed a rifle and shot into the air.

Then he dropped the weapon and raised both hands to the sky.

The truck stopped. The Bedouins returned fire.

He stood motionless until they stopped shooting.

They weren’t going to hit him from that distance. Nor did they look like they were trying too hard. They were just showing him they had guns, too, and were not unprotected
in
case he had mischief on his mind.

The guns fell silent. The pickup moved toward them. “This is not good, is it?” Abigail still lay on the sand behind him.

“On the contrary. We’re saved. Stand up slowly.”

“Is it safe?”

“They won’t shoot at a woman.”

Justifying his optimism, the two men lowered their rifles as soon as they saw her.

“Assalamuh alaikum,”
he called out a greeting as soon as they were within hearing. Peace be with you. The pickup came to a halt.

“Walaikum assalam.”
And upon you peace. A man, about thirty or so, got out with rifle in hand and then after a moment of hesitation, swung it over his shoulder.

Another man, younger than the first by a handful of years at least, came around the truck. They looked enough alike that he assumed they were brothers, both wearing the colorful flowing clothing of the Bedouin. They looked him over, but averted their gazes from Abigail. He figured the decimated hem of her
abayah
showed more leg than they were comfortable with.

“We were kidnapped a couple of days ago and taken into the desert,” he said. “We escaped.”

The men’s faces grew dark.

“Lots of evil in the southern desert these days,” the older of the two said. “Come, we’ll have shelter and food for you at our camp.”

“Shukran.”
He inclined his head. Thank you. Then, ignoring the pain in his side, he jumped into the back of the pickup and helped Abigail climb up next to him.

Dust flew around them as they returned to the camels, which began to disperse. As soon as the men got the herd together again, they started off toward camp, slower than he would have liked, following the meandering animals. Night was falling when they finally reached the tents, about thirty of them, scattered on top of the sand.

An older Bedouin, wearing a white robe and kaffiyeh, a curved dagger tucked into his belt, greeted them.
“Assalamuh alaikum.”

“Walaikum assalam.”
Spike jumped onto the sand and helped Abigail down.

The old man showed them into one of the larger tents.
“Ahlan wa sahlan.”
Rest as in your home.

He sat on a priceless Persian carpet that covered the sand and invited Spike to join him, while two women led Abigail behind a cloth that hung from the tent’s ceiling, dividing it into separate rooms.

He was immediately offered food, water and coffee, and had to tell his story to Abdullah, the clan’s leader, and five sons who soon gathered in the tent. They listened gravely and apologized for their countrymen’s behavior. Then he was shown a place to rest, assured that he and his wife would be taken care of. And for once he slept well, in the relative safety of the camp, knowing that even if El Jafar’s people found them, the Bedouins would not easily give up their guests.

He slept an hour or so and woke to the sound of drums and the smell of roasting meat. Saliva gathered in his mouth, his stomach churning with hunger. He stepped outside and drank in the sight of the camp preparing for a feast under the starlit sky. His gaze settled on Abigail next to one of the cooking fires.

She was taller than the Bedouin women, exotic in a purple
abayah
that had a line of golden patterns running down the arms and sides, a
burqa
covering her face below her eyes. She looked like a nomad princess. The drums heated his blood, and he had a sudden vision of throwing her onto the back of a fine Arabian horse and carrying her off. Which made no sense at all. What could he possibly offer her?

His one-bedroom bachelor apartment in D.C. seemed pitiful all of a sudden. And even if she was willing to go, to give up the work she was so obviously passionate about, how long would it be before his next assignment left her to wonder when and if he was coming back? He couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t ask that of any woman.

He walked to the men who sat around a carpet on the sand. As soon as he took his place among them, an older woman came over with a large platter of food and placed it in the middle. Each man ate from the common platter, scooping up food from the side of the plattern closest to him, some using a piece of flatbread, others their fingers. Careful to use his right hand, he did the same. But as hungry as he was, he barely tasted the food, his eyes returning over and over to Abigail. The women did not eat with the men.

“You have not been married long?” Abdullah asked. He turned his attention to the man, embarrassed that he’d gotten caught. “A week or so.”

“She is the wife of your heart.” The clan leader nodded with a knowing smile.

He didn’t know what to say to that.

Then someone asked him to retell his story, which had apparently circulated around camp while he slept and had aroused much amazement and speculation. He did so, saying as much as he could, rewriting the parts he could not talk about.

“It is good in the eyes of Allah to take care of the orphans and widows.” Abdullah nodded in approval when he told him of Abigail’s work in Tukatar. “It is different for people in the towns. They’ve forgotten the old ways. None here would ever go hungry as long as any of us had food. My people live or die together.” A fierce pride filled his voice, pride for his people and his culture.

Other men shared their tales, too, when he was done—tales of encounters with bandits and robbers. The stories went on late into the night, some true accounts, some no more than folktales. Spike leaned back on one elbow as the old Bedouin next to him took his turn.

“I heard tell of a wealthy merchant once,” he said, his eyes sparkling in the light of the fire. “He had a virtuous and comely son for his eldest, but his stepmother, wanting more power for her own sons, tried to poison him.”

A couple of the men nodded, no doubt having heard the story many times before, while the young boys watched the speaker, mesmerized. Spike took a sip of his drink, as his gaze sought out Abigail once again,

“He had, however, a most magical talking horse who cautioned him. The young man ran away from home dressed as a common beggar, his horse disguised as a donkey, and they joined the sultan’s service. Now, the sultan had a daughter of exceeding beauty and the young man fell deeply in love with her. But on one fateful day, raiders attacked the palace.”

The boys leaned forward, drinking in the old man’s words.

“The merchant’s son fought like a lion against them and overcame the enemy. His true identity was then soon revealed, and in gratitude the sultan gave his daughter to him for a wife. They returned to the house of his father and had many children—”

Spike jumped up as he caught the sound that had interrupted the speaker. A few other men around the fire came to their feet, too. The rumbling of engines grew louder. Trucks. Two or three of them.

“You better stay out of sight.” Abdullah nodded toward his tent and pulled his rifle closer.

The rest ofthe men did the same, while the women and children disappeared out of sight Spike glanced around the tents, wondering which one Abigail had gone into. There was no time to look for her. He ran into Abdullah’s. He waited inside the thick leather flap that covered the opening and listened to the voices that filtered through it.

“Assalamuh alaikwn.
We’re looking for two Americans. A man and a woman. They’re thieves and murderers.”

He recognized Suhaib’s voice.

“Walaikum assalam.
We’ve seen no strangers since we set up camp here,” Abdullah responded.

“I see you are having a feast.”

“My youngest daughter gave birth to a son today. Come feast with us.
Ahlan wa sahlan.”

“Thank you, but we must find the ones we seek. The foreigners are dangerous.”

ABIGAIL LOOKED AROUND the women’s section of the tent, at Sara, her unwed daughters and three young sons. Sara was Abdullah’s first wife, and the head wife among the four, each of whom had her own tent. She had seventeen children—twelve of them still living, she’d told Abigail proudly earlier, making her realize what an achievement that was, how much sacrifice and constant vigilance it took to keep that many children alive under the harsh conditions in which they lived.

She hated the thought that she had brought danger to them.

Indistinct voices filtered in from outside. The men were talking and not fighting-a good sign. Still, she wished Spike was there with her. She felt safer when she was with him. Then, after some time, came the sound of motors starting, the noise slowly fading away into the chatter of the women around her.

Abdullah called through the carpet that was serving as a divider, and Sara responded. She couldn’t understand either of them, their Bedouin dialect beyond her Arab language skills. When Sara motioned to her to follow, she did so.

They didn’t go far. She was shown to another “room,” to Spike. “There you are,” he said, resting among a jumble of pillows, like some harem lord.

She pulled off the
burqa
that covered part of her face. “What happened?”

“I told Abdullah you were my sister and he asked for you for one of his sons. He’s giving me a camel and enough food and water to get to Tihrin as your bride price.”

For a moment she couldn’t think.

“It wasn’t an easy trade considering your age. Would have helped if you were thirteen or so. I had to swear on all my ancestors that you were still a virgin.”

“You’ve got to be—” Then she saw a grin hovering over his lips, and threw a pillow at him, hard. “It’s not funny. This is no time to joke.”

“Relax.’ He reached for her hand and pulled her down next to him. “They’re gone. We’ll head out first thing in the morning. If we left now, it would look too suspicious.”

“You have a sick sense of humor,” she said, her mind still stuck on being left behind. But then she couldn’t help smiling, the tension seeping from her body.

He nuzzled her cheek.

She drew back. “What are you doing?’

“They think we’re newlyweds. We should probably make some kissy-kissy noises,” he whispered. “My manly pride is at stake here. I don’t want them to think American men neglect their wives.”

“You’re crazy.”

“If I am, you made me so.” he said and claimed her lips.

His kiss was incredibly gentle, his arms around her reassuring. He nibbled her lips playfully, licking the corner of her mouth, tasting her, testing her. He pulled back a little to rest on one elbow, and in the light of the single oil lamp next to them, she could see him smiling at her.

She was shocked by the strength of her suddenly awakened needs to have the warmth of his body cover her again, his lips back on hers. And she could tell the exact moment he read the flare of passion in her eyes. His face grew serious, his blue eyes darkened. He lowered himself and gathered her tightly against him, his lips brushing her cheeks, then her eyelids, the tip of her nose, then finally finding her mouth. She shouldn’t be doing this, she thought, and kissed him back.

The world melted away as she floated in the warm sea of his caresses, weightless, careless, at peace and at the same time mindlessly aroused. It lasted forever, not nearly long enough. When he reluctantly pulled back, he took her breath with him, and her lungs, or maybe something else in her chest, leaving her aching and empty.