Nexus Point (Meridian Series) (22 page)

       In the end, Paul was frustrated and gave up
his effort to make the call. Jabr finished his coffee and slipped quietly away
with a promise to come again in the morning. Now Paul lay upon the soft silk-covered
cushions, dozing in a dreamy sleep. Some time later he awakened to the familiar
scent of jasmine, and caught the rustle of someone padding quietly through the
door in the lacquered wood lattice at the back of the room. It was Samirah.

       The woman glided to his side, eyes averted
and the hint of a blush upon her cheeks. The dark curls of her hair were
gleaming with oil, and a single white flower adorned her head. As always, her
gown fell loosely from her shoulders, and she was nearly naked beneath it, her
breasts softly shadowed in the dim light of a lantern, her legs painted by the
wavering of the flame. A garland of silver circlets hung about her neck, catching
the light as she settled on a cushion next to Paul. She was bearing a small
tray with a simple spouted brass pot and a porcelain class. Another of her
potions, thought Paul, remembering the night he first awakened here with
Samirah at his side.

       He glanced at the pot, his thoughts leaping
ahead with anticipation. No doubt it contained some mild narcotic. These people
have been plying him with small doses of some delightful liqueur each night.
The taste was bitter sweet, and its effect was very pleasant, a shroud of
enveloping warmth followed by keen sensitivity that left him feeling
exhilarated. Then Samirah would sidle close to him, loosening his robes. She
would wet her hands with oil and explore his lean body in ways designed to 
compliment the drug quite nicely. The long night was deeply satisfying for him.
Samirah would shed her gown and stretch out next to him, her smooth body
pressed tightly against his while they slept.

       For all his misgiving about being held a
hostage, he could think of much worse treatment. Yet he felt a twinge of guilt
when he thought of Jen, the grad student he had been living with this last
month. He had been helping the poor woman sort through her confusion over the
consequences of the mission. Now, here he was consorting with this Arab beauty
in the night, in Syria, of all places, which is where he surmised this place to
be.

       Samirah never spoke, at least not with words
that he could understand. Yet the language of her body was clear and obvious
across all cultural barriers. She meant to give him pleasure, undoubtedly at
the behest of the leaders of this group, and she played her role with a skill
that left Paul exhausted when she was through, wanting only sleep and the last
warm embrace of her body next to his. Perhaps they meant to kill me with
kindness, he thought. It was said that you could catch more flies with honey
than vinegar, but he had little doubt that the other leader, the one they
called the Sami, might prefer harder methods. What did these people want from him?
Why were they holding him here? When would he get a chance to contact his
friends at home?

       He watched while Samirah quietly set the
little tray she had been holding down beside a pillowed cushion. She reached
for the small brass pot, and Paul saw that her hand was shaking slightly as she
poured a thick liqueur into the porcelain cup. It had a scent akin to kahlua,
yet with something added—probably hashish, Paul guessed. Samirah poured, her
hand unsteady, almost quavering, and Paul wondered if she was chilled. The
lower rooms where he was quartered became very cold at night, and the sun had
long since set.

       He leaned up on one elbow to take the cup
but, as he did so, he sensed something wrong with the woman at his side. The
light from the oil lamp revealed a trace of wetness on her cheek, and Paul saw
the glistening trail of a tear there. She was crying!

       As if aware of his attention, Samirah turned
her head to one side, but Paul could see that she was only pretending to tend
to the pot of liqueur, averting her face from him.

       “Samirah?” he said. “What’s wrong?” He knew
she would not understand his question, but his tone of voice carried the
meaning clear enough.

       She turned to him. Eyes bright with tears,
and a squall of pain darkening her softly contoured features.  She seemed to be
struggling with some emotion, her lower lip quivering as she fought for
control. Then, in a sudden motion that surprised Paul she reached out with her
slim brown arm and batted the porcelain cup away, spilling the sweet, dark
liqueur on the flagstone floor. Before Paul could react to that, she lunged at
him, her arms embracing him as she wept.

       For the hundredth time in this strange
encounter, Paul found himself inwardly wondering what was going on. It was
clear that Samirah was deeply moved by something. Her arms tightened around
him, pulling him close, and her lips sought the nook of his neck where she
kissed him softly, tenderly, with an affection that seemed driven by the
turmoil within her. It was as if she was trying to say goodbye, he thought. His
heart leapt at a sudden sound. There was a dry scrape as the wooden door
creaked open and he heard the whisk of metal being drawn from a leather
scabbard. Someone else was entering the room, a shadow advancing on them with
weapon in hand.

18

The shadow
vaulted across the room, prompting Paul to tense up
with sudden anxiety. He instinctively rolled to his side to shelter Samirah,
who lay upon him, in harm’s way. A fearful revelation pulsed in his brain and
made him realize that this was the end of the long hospitality he had enjoyed
here. He extended his arm, to ward the intruder off but, to his great surprise
and relief, he saw the face of Jabr Ali S’ad illuminated in the ruddy glow of
the lantern.

       Jabr rasped something in Arabic, and Paul
felt Samirah’s soft body tense up. She moved at once, gathering herself and
drawing her robes tight about her slim body. “Come, Do-Rahlan!” Jabr’s whisper
carried the weight of great urgency. “You cannot stay here this night.  We must
move quickly!”

       He spoke to Samirah again, somewhat harshly.
Paul saw how he eyed the stain of the spilled liqueur. How could he berate the
woman for that? Yet, Samirah was clearly shamed. Her head lowered, face
streaked with tears. Paul had the distinct impression that he was missing
something in the equation, but he sensed the danger and rising tension in the
room. He started to move, reflexively, pulling his loose robes tight and tying
them off with a woven sash. As he stood up he turned to see Samirah, hastening
away through the opening in the wood lattice. Jabr’s dark eyes followed her,
but with little warmth.

       “What’s happening?” he asked, his eyes
instinctively searching the darkness for signs of hidden danger.

       “The Sami’s men are moving tonight. A severed
head was planted in the courtyard moments ago. It is a sign of evil. There is
no time to explain, but we must go—and with great haste. Follow me, Do-Rahlan.
It will be dark, and you will not know the way. Here, hold fast to the sash of
my robe, and stay close. Move as quietly as you can. Come!”

       Jabr led the way to the far end of the room
and through a low stone arch there. It was the same passage that they had taken
the previous morning on the way up to the Kadi’s council chambers, and the same
two dour guards were waiting silently in the shadows as they passed the gate.
This time they bent right to another landing where the stairs fell in a steep
descent. As before, one of the guards took the van, drawn sword in hand. Jabr
and Paul followed after, and then the last guard trailed in their wake.  

       The winding stone stair seemed interminable.
Along the way he was dogged by the feeling of urgency that seemed to infect
Jabr and the two guards. Then an odd thing happened. About half way down, by
Paul’s reckoning, he heard the shuffling of other footsteps behind them. He
strained to see, but the lighting was very poor here, and he could not make out
what the commotion was before the sour faced guard came up from behind to nudge
him on. Jabr had noticed his hesitation, and pleaded with him to hurry on,
clearly worried. Paul’s legs ached by the time they halted at the bottom. It
was a small Donjon, sturdily built with heavy mortared bricks and a low arch
formed from wedges of coarsely hewn stone. The atmosphere of the place had a
musty, muggy feeling, and he could see the gleaming trails of water seeping
through cracks in the walls, and greenish moss on the stonework.

       “Hold on,” he said. “Where are you taking
me?”

       Jabr gave him a wide-eyed glance, his finger
covering his mouth to indicate silence. “We must be very cautious now,” he
whispered. “We must move you to a new location, a hidden chamber. I will
explain later.”

       That’s done it, Paul thought. There was some
unresolved argument between the Sami and the Kadi, and now he was being moved.
He began to realize, with a sinking feeling, that he was probably a hostage
after all. The two sides were just quarreling over his fate. Perhaps the
argument was over whether he should be kept alive as a propaganda tool, or killed
outright, like many Westerners had been slain at the hands of Muslim radicals
in recent years. The only hope he held was the notion that this group seemed to
want him alive.

        He hurried on, through the low arch and
down a long circuitous underground route that eventually ended in a black iron
gate. Jabr produced a key, and the gate grated open. “I regret that our
accommodations will not be so comfortable now,” he said, gesturing for Paul to
pass through.

       The gate opened to a small portal chamber
with a similar gate on the far wall. The outermost opening was supported by
massive basalt lintels, dark with age and wear. Once inside Paul was surprised
at Jabr’s next statement. “I must ask you to undress,” he said hurriedly.

       “I beg your pardon?”

       “Please, there is very little time. You must
change clothing.” One of the guards tramped in with an armful of dull brown
burlap.

       “As you wish,” said Paul, feeling very
uncomfortable about this situation. “What about the clothes I was wearing when
I arrived?” He suddenly realized that he had his wallet, money, keys and other
personal effects with him that had gone missing.”

       “I’m very sorry,” Jabr said quickly. “They
were all destroyed by fire. It is customary when anyone comes through the well.
Please, we must hurry.”

       Paul didn’t like the sound of that. Now
there would be no easy way he could identify himself to the authorities if he
ever obtained his freedom. He wondered if they meant to kill him here and now.
Were they merely reclaiming the finery he had been dressed in so they could
dispose of his body in these rags? He took up the garment, unhappy to see how
it was soiled and muddied, as though only recently cast off by a traveler on
the road. Was this to be his burial gown? Resigned, he undid the woven sash at
his waist, and moments later he was tying off the new robe, if it could be
called such, with a simple twine rope.

       “The hood,” said Jabr. “Please cover your
head.”

       Paul reached back to pull the drooping hood
up onto his head, realizing that he must look like a cloistered monk in these
heavy brown robes.

       Jabr squinted at him. “That will do. Be
careful not to show your face. We must move quickly now.”

       It comforted Paul to see that both the
guards, and Jabr himself were changing into similar garb. It was now evident
that they meant to secret him away from the castle, and they seemed in a great
hurry.

       “Alas,” Jabr forced a smile. “Samirah was
nearly turned by the Sami. I think she meant to poison you tonight, or at least
she was pressed to that deed by some great fear. I am sorry to have burst in
upon you in such an unseemly manner, but if you had taken the cup from her hand
I think your sleep would have been very dark. Sadly, you will not enjoy her
company tonight. Before you count your losses, consider that your life may be
gained by this move. Things did not go well with the Sami. The severed head is
an ill omen. His men are afoot in the castle and there may be bloodshed soon.
The Kadi has ordered me to secure your life, but the next few hours will be
critical.
Another will lie in your place, dressed in
your robes, and carry out the ruse that you are still in your quarters as
before. I do not envy him. Come, we must make haste!”

       The guards pushed open the outer gate and
they passed through to emerge at the stony edge of a steep precipice. As his
eyes adjusted Paul soon saw a narrow path winding down into a cloven gully, lit
by a low setting moon, and partially obscured by the hills. The whole setting
was overshadowed by the brooding prominence of a great castle that had been
built on a high limestone hill. The walls leapt up from this point, as if they
had grown from the sheer cliffs about them. The tawny stones were scored with
the weathering of wind and occasional rain, yet they seemed impregnable—a massive
fortress of brick and rock spiking up into a gray-black sky.

       Paul realized that
their long descent had taken them below the level of his original quarters.
Apparently the castle builders had exploited many natural crevices and hollows
to delve out a series of underground passageways and vaults beneath the rugged
limestone elevation.