Sandstorm (Sigma Force 1)

Tiny stars danced across Safia’s vision, birthed by the lack of oxygen and the tension. If she moved, she died. If she even breathed…

Then a shift of shadows drew her eye to the window. Condensation steamed the glass, making the view murky. But there was no doubt.

Someone was out there.

8 Snakes and Ladders

Sandstorm

DECEMBER 2, 08:24 P.M.

OLD TOWN, MUSCAT

W HERE THE hell’s Safia?” Omaha asked, checking his watch.

It was ten minutes past the time they were all supposed to gather for dinner. The woman he had known in the past was painfully punctual, something drilled into her at Oxford. It was her attention to detail that made her such an accomplished curator.

“Shouldn’t she be here by now?” he said.

“I had a bath drawn for her,” Kara announced as she stepped into the room. “A maid just went up with fresh clothes.”

Kara entered, resplendent in a traditional Omani thob gown of flowing red silk with gold filigree embroidered along the hems. She abandoned any headdress, leaving her auburn hair free, and wore Prada sandals. As always, to Kara, a line had to be drawn between the traditional and the fashionable.

“A bath?” Omaha groaned. “Then we’ll never see her this evening.”

Safia loved water in all its forms: showers, fountains, flowing taps, dips in streams and lakes, but especially baths. He used to tease her, attributing her fixation to her desert past. You can take the girl out of the desert, but never the desert out of the girl.

With this thought, other uninvited memories intruded, of long baths shared, limbs entwined, laughter, soft moans, steam off water and skin.

“She’ll be along when she’s ready,” Kara warned, protective, drawing him back to the room. She nodded to the household butler. “We’ll be serving a light Omani dinner before we head out in a couple of hours. Please sit.”

Everyone found seats, dividing into party lines. Painter and Coral sat on one side, along with Safia’s graduate student, Clay. Danny and Omaha took seats on the other. Lastly, Kara settled on the lone chair at the head of the table.

Upon some unseen signal, servants paraded through a set of swinging doors from the kitchen hallway. They bore aloft covered trays, some held above their heads on a single palm. Others carried wider trays in both arms.

As each platter was lowered to the table, the servant stepped deftly back, lifting the lids to expose what lay beneath. It was all clearly choreographed.

Kara named each dish as it was revealed. “Maqbous…saffron rice over lamb. Shuwa…pork cooked in clay ovens. Mashuai…spit-fired kingfish served with lemon rice.” She named a handful of other curried dishes. Amid the feast were plates of thin, oval breads. They were familiar to Omaha. The ubiquitous rukhal bread of Oman, baked over burning palm leaves.

Kara finally finished her introductions. “And lastly, honeycakes, one of my favorites, flavored with the syrup from the native elb tree.”

“What…no sheep’s eyes?” Omaha mumbled.

Kara heard him. “That delicacy can be arranged.”

He held up a conciliatory palm. “I’ll pass this time.”

Kara waved a hand over the spread. “Tradition among the Omani is to serve oneself. Please enjoy.”

The group took her at her word and proceeded to spoon, spear, ladle, and grab. Omaha filled a cup from the tall pot. Kahwa. Omani coffee. Deadly strong. Arabs might shun alcohol, but they had no qualms about caffeine addiction. He took a deep sip and sighed. The bitter tang of the thick coffee was softened by cardamom, a distinct and welcome after-taste.

Conversation centered initially on the quality of the fare. Mostly murmurs of surprise at the tenderness of the meat or the fire of the spices. Clay seemed content to fill his plate with honeycakes. Kara merely picked at her food, keeping a watch on the servants, guiding with a nod or turn of her head.

Omaha studied her while sipping his kahwa.

She was thinner, more wasted than when last he saw her. Kara’s eyes still shone, but now appeared more fevered. Omaha knew how much effort she had invested in this trip. And he knew why. Safia and he had kept few secrets…at least back then. He knew all about Reginald Kensington. His portrait stared down at Kara from the wall behind her. Did she still feel those eyes?

Omaha imagined he’d be no better if his own father had vanished into the desert, sucked out of this world. But thank God, it required his imagination to fathom such a loss. His father, at eighty-two, still worked the family farm back in Nebraska. He ate four eggs, a rasher of bacon, and a pile of buttered toast each breakfast and smoked a cigar each night. His mother was even more fit. Solid stock, his father used to brag. Just like my boys.

As Omaha thought of his family, his brother’s sharp voice drew his attention from Kara. Danny was elaborating on the escapade of the midday abduction, using his fork as much as his voice to tell the story. Omaha recognized the flush of excitement as he relived the day’s events. He shook his head, hearing the bluster and swagger in his younger brother. Omaha had once been the same. Immortal. Armored in youth.

No longer.

He stared down at his own hands. They were lined and scarred, his father’s hands. He listened to Danny’s story. It had not been the grand adventure his brother related. It had been deadly-serious business.

A new voice interrupted. “A woman?” Painter Crowe asked with a frown. “One of your kidnappers was a woman?”

Danny nodded. “I didn’t see her, but my brother did.”

Omaha found the other man’s eyes turning to him, a piercing blue. His brow furrowed, his gaze concentrating attention like a well-focused laser.

“Is this true?” Crowe asked.

Omaha shrugged, taken aback by his intensity.

“What did she look like?”

This last was spoken too quickly. Omaha answered slowly, watching the pair. “She was tall. My height. From the way she handled herself, I’d say she had military training.”

Painter glanced at his partner. A silent message seemed to pass between them. They knew something they weren’t telling. The scientist faced Omaha again. “And her appearance?”

“Black hair and green eyes. Bedouin descent. And oh, a small red teardrop tattoo by one eye…her left.”

“Bedouin,” Painter repeated. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve worked this region for the past fifteen years. I can tell individual tribe members and clans apart.”

“Which tribe was the woman from?”