the best place to weather the storm, noticing as he did so that the satellite dish was missing. Probably knocked down by the unusually savage storm they’d had a week ago. “When we were looking for a site for a new project and had some surveys done, we found plenty of water. The water table is now deep below the bottom of the well our ancestors dug in the sand.” The desert had gotten drier and drier over the last century.
“So you’re from around here?” She gave him a searching look. “You talk like an American.”
“I lived in the States for a while.” Sometimes he thought it’d been too long, sometimes too short. He watched as her gaze flitted over his buildings. She didn’t seem impressed. It annoyed him more than it should.
“MMPOIL is branching out?” she asked.
“The oil won’t last forever.”
Now was the time to set up other businesses, to start to develop other industries. His people’s future depended on these initiatives, and he took them seriously, even though he’d received plenty of ridicule as a result. His generation had grown up oil rich. They’d seen nothing else, could imagine nothing else. They couldn’t fathom that the revenue and the lifestyle it brought would ever end. And if any such unpleasant thought did cross their minds, they took care of it with a shrug and an insha’Allah—it’ll be according to Allah’s will.
“This place is huge.” She looked back at him finally. She had eyes the shade of the desert sky right after a rare rain took all the sand particles out of the air. A captivating blue that brightened further the few times she let her guard down, never longer than seconds at a time.
The top of her head was even with his nose. She was slim but strong, inside and out. She might bend, but she wouldn’t break. She had nearly maimed the bandit who’d grabbed her.
Tariq forced his gaze away from her lips, which might look soft if she ever relaxed. “Twenty acres. Someday it’ll be a five-star resort that will draw visitors from all over the world.”
He also had a convention center complex in mind for another location, closer to Tihrin, and a long list of other projects he fought with his enemies to bring to fruition. All things that were suddenly low on his list of priorities.
He headed toward the cluster of luxury villas, the most completed buildings. No doors or windows here, either, but the floors were tiled and the roofs finished, the sunken pools in the bathrooms set up with plumbing, if not yet hooked up to water.
“Wow, this is amazing,” Sara said, with a fair dose of surprise in her voice as she took in the brilliant colors of the mosaic tiles depicting scenes from nature, similar to those at the ancient ruins to the west of them.
“We’ll get water and look for the satellite dish.” The latter had to be near the tall building it’d rested on, probably buried in sand. They had used it during construction to amplify cell phone signals, since the nearest tower was so far away. Tariq needed to talk to his brothers, and let Omar, Husam’s father, know about his son’s abduction, although the kidnappers might have contacted him by now.
Tariq sympathized with the anguish the man must be in, and to a degree, he blamed himself. He should have noticed when the bandits took Husam, and done something to prevent it. He owed as much to Omar, an old family friend who had been there for Tariq’s father until the end. But Tariq had been so focused on Sara, and sure that Husam could hold his own …. No time to dwell on all that now. Before he could be of any help to Husam, he first had to save Sara and himself.
Water. Satellite dish. Car.
If for some reason he couldn’t get a connection, he would fix the Hummer with whatever scraps he could scrounge, and take Sara to the nearest town as soon as the storm blew over.
“You work with the sheik, you must have his direct line,” she was saying. “Even if you think someone from your company might be involved, we could tell him to send only his most trusted men.”
She’d be surprised to know just how few trusted men the sheik had. “Stay here,” Tariq murmured.
The building provided shade, the windows strategically placed so that even without air-conditioning the cross breeze would bring relief to the occupants. He moved through the villa, squinting against the sun when he stepped outside and headed for the trailers the workers had used before they left. Padlocked. He strode back to the Hummer for the tire iron and used it to bust the lock on one door.
The four cots inside made for cramped quarters, and the air was stale, still carrying the smell of sweat that clung to the bedding. He dug through a tin chest at the foot of one bed and took the single clean blanket. His next stop was the canteen. There, he got a twenty-liter pot, used the tire iron to break the Plexiglas in the vending machine, and filled the container nearly to the brim with small packages of snacks, before returning to the villa.
“Hungry?”
She was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, eyeing the food he carried.
He tossed the blanket onto the floor and spread it out with her help, then poured his loot in the middle. “I’ll go get water.” And he’d keep an eye out for that satellite dish. On the off chance he had been the main target of the attack, he wanted to warn his brothers. If someone was after control of MMPOIL, they would be next.
“What can I do to help?” She stood gracefully, although she had to be exhausted both physically and emotionally. She walked to the door with him.
“See if there’s anything left in the car we might need while we’re here.” He hurried toward the main water pipe, keeping her in his line of sight as she made her way back to the Hummer.
She disappeared inside the building only briefly, soon coming back into view with what looked like an armload of garbage.
When the pot was filled, Tariq started to return, but something caught his eye near an outlying building.
“I’ll go look around,” he called out, waiting until she reached the villa before he did so. His gaze settled on the shapeless business suit she wore—probably in deference to the customs of his country. Idly, he wondered how she dressed at home, in her own element. His mind readily skipped to form-fitting, skin-revealing outfits he’d seen plenty of during his time in California.
He thought of those years with nostalgia. Nothing would ever be that simple for him again. He had grown an impenetrable shell in the four years since he’d been back in Beharrain, an armor needed to protect him from his enemies, from the pain of betrayals. Only lately had he been realizing that while it served its purpose of staving off attacks, his shield was also beginning to imprison him.
He set the water down and strode toward the distant lines in the sand. Sara Reeves had asked him to send for his most trusted men. Truth was, he did not, could not, trust anyone except Omar—the man who had been a mentor to him since his return—and his brothers. He would ask his brothers for help. He wanted to get Sara away from danger, wanted to be back in the city himself, back in his own element. Once the sandstorm passed, tracking the bandits would be impossible, all signs of them erased. He would have to use other avenues to investigate.
Omar and all his manpower and wealth were probably working on finding Husam already.
The tire tracks came from the west and disappeared into a partially completed building that would be a hotel someday, fashioned after a famous medieval palace that had stood along one of the caravan
