Heather Graham (3 page)

For a while she tried to stare at the pictures again, hoping Jim would call back. But as the time passed, she grew drowsy and accepted the fact that the phone systems in the UAE must not be among the best. He had probably decided not to call back since he would be seeing her tomorrow night.

She finished her wine and plumped her pillow a little vengefully to take out her frustration, then closed her eyes and prayed for a decent night’s sleep. She didn’t want to dream about Wayne. A long time ago she had schooled herself not to think about him or her broken marriage, and she didn’t want to start spending sleepless nights again because he had written. And she didn’t want to worry about Jim. Little tingles of fear had touched along her spine when the connection had been broken, but she was sure she was being ridiculous. Nevertheless, it seemed to take her forever to doze off again.

When she did sleep she didn’t dream of Wayne once. The visions that spun in her mind were of colossal statues, endless sand dunes and golden idols. She dreamed of massive puzzle pieces floating in space. And when she did dream of a man’s face, it wasn’t her ex-husband’s. It was a deeply tanned face with piercing dark eyes, eyes that could impale one, eyes that could reach across space and touch someone. Stern, remote, yet vital and electric. The face and eyes would merge with visions of Bedouins racing across desert sands on Arabian stallions with majestic tails flying high. Sabers slashed the air as they rode, their Arabic chants riding high to the skies. …

None of the hodgepodge of dreaming mattered. Alex didn’t remember it in the morning. She overslept and had to rush to dress and race against time to make her initial flight to Paris.

Once airborne, she was both too tired and too excited to dwell on either worries or dreams. Her real-life fantasy was just coming true, and she wouldn’t worry about anything again until she reached the airport in Cairo.

Then she would worry herself sick. Because Jim would never show up.

T
HE SETTING OF THE
sun created a strange orange and golden glow in the western sky, a haze of color that seemed to shimmer with the cooling remnants of a shattering heat. The everlasting sand of the desert, which permeated even Cairo’s central streets, seemed to combine with that strange color and shimmer. It was the twenty-third of July, and hot as could be in Cairo. The workday was ending; buses with passengers hanging precariously to windows and doors honked their way through the melee of traffic, humanity, chickens and occasional other animal life.

A taxi stopped in front of the Hotel Victoria, an establishment owned by British interests but operated by a pleasant crew of Egyptians. The man who exited the vehicle might have been Arabian himself, except perhaps for his height. In stocking feet he stood a few millimeters over six foot three. He was dark, and his hair went beyond jet. The mahogany of his eyes was so deep it too might be mistaken for black.

He was a man who was seldom at a standstill. A vital and passionate interest in life sizzled from those deep jet eyes, and even when he sat quietly, he seemed to emanate explosive energy. Those jet eyes were always alert. When seemingly half closed with laziness beneath jet lashes and thick arched brows, they were still assessing, probing, searing.

His features, taken separately, were not particularly handsome. His nose was long and a shade crooked due to a break in a college boxing match years before; his cheekbones were high but a shade too gaunt. His jaw was decidedly stubborn—square, determined and strong. His mouth was a curiosity; the full lips were well shaped, but when he became angry, they could draw to a grim line as white as his eyes were black.

Yet whatever analysis could be made of his individual features, they somehow combined to make him a devastating man. Or perhaps the uniquely arresting quality had nothing to do with looks; it might have been that sheer, radiating vitality, creating an aura about the man that was so rugged and earthy, it was shattering.

He wouldn’t have thought himself particularly vital as he alighted from the taxi that evening. Having just wrapped up background filming in the Valley of the Kings, he had returned to Cairo by way of the Nile on a barge and stopped briefly at Giza to oversee a few brief shots of the Great Pyramids. He felt as if he hadn’t slept in a week, and he would have sworn under oath that he was wearing half the Sahara.

Hoisting his duffel bag, which now contained nothing but dirty clothing, over a khaki-clad shoulder, he overtipped the driver and stepped to the sidewalk in front of the Victoria. The hectic pace of the streets suddenly came to a lull as chanting voices rose from the minarets of the city’s mosques. The cryers, or muezzins, were calling the Islams to evening prayer. All across the city, the followers of Muhammad would be turning to face Mecca.

Dan D’Alesio stopped himself for a minute, feeling the pulse of Cairo. He glanced toward the shimmering orange sky and grinned slightly, then strode on into the Victoria lobby.

She was a quaint old hotel, Victorian in fixture as in name, with an Old World graciousness Dan found charming. She hadn’t the elegance of the Cairo Hilton, but she far surpassed it in character. Ceiling fans helped along the laboring air-conditioners and created the pleasant feeling of a breeze. An abundance of lovingly tended greenery fringed about carved wood railings and lattice-work and added to an atmosphere of gracious hospitality.

He hadn’t planned to stop at the desk. He was dead tired and plagued by a curious problem. But Rajman was there and eagerly hailed him. “How was the filming, Mr. D’Alesio? Did you find Dr. Crosby?”

Dan grimaced and shook his head as he turned toward the curious Egyptian. Rajman’s family owned the Victoria, and Raj usually acted as host for his father and helped manage the hotel. But when Dan came to town, Raj became his unofficial personal manager in Cairo with the full blessing of his father, who was proud to see his son beneath the wing of the respected journalist.

“The filming went as well as could be expected without the principal player. And I couldn’t find out a damn thing about Crosby.”

Rajman shook his head mournfully in return. “What do you think happened? I thought he was supposed to have met his assistant here two weeks ago and then called you—”

“He was. I don’t know what happened, Raj,” Dan interrupted tiredly. His lips compressed into a white line and he added softly, “But I am going to find out.”

“I hope so,” Rajman said fervently. “May Allah be merciful, I certainly hope so.”

“Yeah. Well, listen, Raj, it’s been a rough week. I’m going to head up and soak in a tub and get some sleep. Don’t put any calls through, huh?”

Rajman, his huge dark eyes soulful, half nodded and half bowed several times. “I’ll make sure nothing gets through, Mr. D’Alesio. But I guess I should warn you, I have a basket full of messages from that Dr. Randall who keeps writing and I’ve had a dozen calls from a woman—”

“Toss those messages from Dr. Alex Randall in the garbage,” Dan said impatiently. “The man has been plaguing me with wires from West Thebes to Memphis to Cairo! I don’t know if he thinks he has some big discovery and is a publicity hound or if he’s trying to cash in on Crosby. I wrote the man a note to tell him I was sorry—I just don’t have time right now for anyone. Feel free to toss anything that comes from Randall.”

“What about this woman who keeps calling?”

“Who is she?”

“She won’t say—”

“Then hang up on her! No, I guess she’d just keep calling you back and harass you. If she calls again, tell her I’m leaving the country. I am, by the way—I’m going to head for the United Arab Emirates tomorrow.”

“To see Ali Sur Sheriff?”

“Umm.” Dan liked Rajman. He was a bright twenty-year-old with a quick and engaging wit, and a curiosity and penchant for life not unlike his own. Rajman worked for him every time he came into Egypt. Dan appreciated the young man’s exuberant help, and Rajman loved the excitement of Dan’s life. The relationship had grown to a bond of special friendship.

“Ali was—or still is—planning on financing Jim’s expedition. And I know Jim met with Ali two weeks or so ago, so if anyone knows anything about what Jim is up to or where he might be, it’s Ali. So get me a flight out, will you?”

“Of course. For just you? Or are you taking a film crew?”

“Just me.”

Dan drummed his fingers lightly on the counter and grimaced. “See you in the morning, Raj. I’m beat.”

Raj nodded. “Don’t worry about your flight,” he called after Dan as the older man headed toward the gilded-cage elevator. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“Thanks,” Dan answered as the doors clanged open for him. “One more thing, Raj—send me up something to eat, will you? Whatever you’ve got that looks good. Just tell the boy to set the tray in the parlor.”

Raj nodded again, and the doors clanged shut on Dan. Dan grinned slightly as the little cage began to grind its way up to the third floor. There was one good thing about the situation—he was going to be glad to see Ali Sur Sheriff.

The Arab was one of the wealthiest sheikhs within the incredibly wealthy emirate of Abu Dhabi. His father had become extremely affluent when vast oil resources had been discovered in his sheikhdom in the fifties. Ali had been sent to school in the United States, and there he and Dan had become fast friends.

Now Ali was second only to the emir himself in power. He was a man of strange contradictions. He traveled frequently, had homes in Paris, London, New York and Cairo and could meet with the best of company in the best of places with suave sophistication. He was a brilliant man with an astounding perception of the world around him.

But he was also an Arab sheikh and a Muslim, a man dedicated to his people and his culture. He preferred his desert tents to all the luxuries of the so-called more civilized world. He followed devoutly the teachings of his religion, and very much a family man. As a husband, he was touchingly faithful—to all four of his wives.

The elevator groaned and clanged as it halted at the third floor. Dan left the small cage with his smile fading, his worry about James Crosby returning as he automatically moved down the hall with long strides.

Dan’s room was actually a suite consisting of a bright parlor that overlooked the street, a nice-size bedroom and a gargantuan bathroom with a massive claw-foot tub. Dan dropped his duffel bag on the love seat in the parlor and headed straight for the bathroom.

He grimaced at his reflection in the silvering mirror over the sink. He needed a shave badly, and he looked as dusty as he felt. Anyone who met me in a dark alley would probably scream, he thought dryly, rubbing his scratchy chin. It was hard to believe that his was a face millions of Americans tuned in to see three or four times a year when he presented his documentaries. Shaking his head at the sorry reflection, he considered shaving first, then decided the hell with the idea and turned to grasp the ancient faucets for the bath and began to run a stream of steaming hot water. As the water ran, he stripped off his boots, grimacing again as a little molehill comprised of sands of the Sahara formed on the floor. He tossed his boots into the bedroom, shed his shirt and trousers and briefs and sank gratefully into the tub, leaning his head against the rim and closing his eyes. The hot water felt wonderful, permeating his worn muscles and creating a spell of comfort. He leaned up for a moment to douse his face and hair strenuously, then reflected that he could really go for a drink. He jumped out of the tub, dripping over the white and black tiles, raced through the parlor like a streaker, and dug through the small mahogany bar for a bottle of Scotch. He reached for a glass, then shrugged and decided he was all alone, then returned to the tub, taking a swig of the Scotch and setting it on the ledge beside him.

Ahhh … comfort!

He took another long swig and settled back against the tub, closing his eyes as the steamy mist rose around him.

As the heat relaxed him, the Scotch somewhat revived him, or at least revived his mind. He had been thinking about Dr. Jim Crosby, probably the most respected Egyptologist in the contemporary world, for the last two weeks, worrying about the man so much that it had actually hurt, his mind protesting with throbbing headaches.

He had tried to sound low key when he spoke about Crosby to Raj, but in reality he was as anxious as could be. He had met Crosby several times during his journalistic-broadcast career—in Cairo at a big demonstration to preserve antiquities, twice in London when Crosby spoke at exhibitions at the Victoria and Albert Museum and just last year in New York. He was an affable man, just forty-four, very good-looking in a beach-boy sort of way, which hardly seemed to fit a specialized archaeologist who spent his days studying the lives of pharaohs and digging up sand in the desert. Yet despite his easygoing ways and pleasant appeal, Crosby had a mind that went beyond the genius level, if eccentric, and a sense of honor and responsibility.

Dan couldn’t believe Jim Crosby would simply walk out on his commitment to him—or that he would give up an expedition in the planning stages simply to disappear on some lark.

Granted, he and Crosby had agreed to do the special on Crosby’s new dig when they had both been half lit in Crosby’s New York hotel room, but they had spoken since then. And besides, that had been a good night. They had left the stuffy conference room of the Belmont behind them, agreed to talk and discovered they had a lot in common—mainly dislike for armchair world-authorities and critics, champagne and caviar and being choked to death by black ties while attempting to converse cordially with the fluff of “concerned” society. In Crosby’s room they had discarded jackets and ties, and Crosby, with a grin on his face like that of a wayward kid, had pulled out of ice a few six-packs of beer. By the time Dan left, he had agreed to arrange a meeting for Crosby with Ali to obtain financing for the proposed expedition, and Crosby had agreed to allow Dan to film the entire proceedings.

Dan had begun to worry when Crosby hadn’t contacted him in Cairo when he first arrived, but he hadn’t felt panicky. They had already set up their filming dates; Crosby would show in the Valley of the Kings. But on July 10, the day they had agreed to meet, Dan had found no Jim Crosby in the Valley of Kings; merely a number of lost and confused workers.