PROLOGUE Zeben lay quietly in his cell, eyes closed, waiting. The dreams grew stronger, more detailed. The months of captivity rankled, but he did not mind. Allah''s plan for his life loomed larger than those of the Jafirian government. God''s wishes trumped the petty desires of the ISA. Yaweh would free him from his captivity, if he only believed. The key to his freedom, to his return to power, had been stolen by the infidels. Taken by one who called him brother and betrayed him.
His destiny called to him, its bright truth flickered in his visions. Yes, he now had visions to guide him, since his liberty had been taken. And in his latest vision, he''d witnessed his truth. Freedom and conquest were his destiny, and he would smite the thieves. His gaunt body shuddered with the power of his visions. Show me the infidels, and I will destroy them . Hands trembling, he clasped them in supplication. Show me the betrayer, and I will lay him low .
Now, the trembling suffused his body. Show me the power, and it shall be mine . Keva, Zeben''s guard, approached the isolated cell, the boy''s scattered thoughts on the terrible row he''d had with his girlfriend. She''d been angry about the phone number scrawled in lipstick she''d found in his apartment. His stammered explanation of ignorance didn''t satisfy her, so tonight he''d bring flowers and candles. That should make her happy, he decided. Zeben''s dinner balanced precariously on a plastic tray, rounded and light. They claimed he was dangerous, would use any weapon at his disposal.
But Keva had been assigned to Zeben for weeks now, without incident. Yes, the old man ranted about infidels and possessing a diamond the size of his fist. But he also muttered in his sleep about claiming the throne of Jafir. Every schoolchild knew the legend of the monarchy. The last rulers had been drowned in the Mediterranean twenty-five years ago, their bodies crushed against the rocks on the craggy shore. Because Jafir was a constitutional monarchy, the people mourned the loss of the royal family, but did not replace them. Aristocracy was bred in the bone, not assigned. Zeben was an old, senile fool of little threat, Keva decided.
So he no longer hurried into the cell to deliver the meals and administer the prisoner''s medication, frightened of his shadow. "Arm and leg in cuffs," he demanded in a voice not yet settled into manhood, speaking into an intercom. He noted the clicks as the arm and leg were securely attached to the wall, limiting Zeben''s range of motion. Zeben listened as the guard punched in the code that released the metal door to the narrow cell. Dim, milky light trickled into Zeben''s solitary room. To diminish his power, they''d separated him from his followers. But no matter. He was prepared.
"Good afternoon," Zeben offered in a voice raspy from disuse. Keva ignored him. One didn''t talk to the prisoners. So much fear of an emaciated codger, he sneered. Nevertheless, he kept his distance as he placed the tray on the metal table bolted to the floor. When he left the cell, he''d key in the digits to release Zeben''s cuffs, freeing him from the wall. Would Leondra prefer roses or daffodils? he wondered idly as he prepared the sedative. He tapped the glass of the syringe, the way the prison doctor taught him, and turned to administer the shot.
He never felt the bony finger press firmly against his carotid artery, never knew he''d died. Quickly, Zeben undressed the boy and put on the black uniform. Then he dragged the lifeless body to the hard pallet and cuffed him to the bed. Pulling the black cap low over his eyes, he made his way to the laundry room. There, his source informed him that a door led to the truck bay. With the guard''s purloined weapon, he calmly shot the two prisoners toiling inside the cramped, humid room. Entering the codes he''d been given, he bypassed the security lock and emerged into a black tunnel. He ran then, the sound of the engines drawing him closer.
He climbed into the piles of dirty clothes and soiled linen, disappearing in the fabric. Eventually, the truck began to roll forward, halting twice at the checkpoints. Hours later, Zeben stood on the balcony of his lair, inhaling the sea''s cleansing air. The radio carried reports of an unidentified prisoner''s escape. The police scanner gave more detail, but none mentioned his name. President Robertsi would quash all information, to allay the fears of his people, Zeben knew. Zeben knew also that the coward would contact the ISA and request assistance. Loathing rose to mingle with the salty air.
Robertsi was weak, dependent on foreigners to rule. Zeben would enjoy snapping his neck. He turned and walked inside, his guest waiting patiently in front of his desk. Civelli grinned, the blinding capped-tooth smile ingratiating and reckless. "Did you bring it?" Zeben demanded, steepling his fingers on the blotter. Civelli reached into his case and removed a sheaf of papers. "It''s everything I could find. Descriptions of the accident, medical reports on the bodies, police reports of the investigation.
" He leaned into the chair and lit a thin cigar. Smoke swirled around the angular brown face. "I researched the history of the monarchy. If the heir does not claim the throne by midnight on the first, the wealth of the monarchy reverts to the government. Including the Kholari and its mate, the Sahalia ruby." "''And the heir will be known by the possession of the obelisk. The Rites of Ascension shall be spoken and the rightful heir will take command,''" Zeben recited from memory. Civelli shifted uneasily in his seat, eager to collect his fee and be on his way.
Zeben''s fanaticism, though amusing, too often proved to be dangerous. Helping him steal Praxis had landed the old man in jail and sent Civelli on the lam. Four months in Pakistan fencing nuclear reactor parts, and three in India trading for silo specs. He''d been pleasantly surprised to receive Zeben''s summons. Research was always preferable to the hazards of war. "So," he began cheerfully, "I''ll take my fee and be on my way. Everything you requested is here." He slid the sheaf across the desk.
Zeben studied him. Some called Civelli a weasel, others used more pejorative terms. To Zeben, he was merely an instrument, one effortlessly controlled. "I want you to find the obelisk," Zeben announced. Civelli started in surprise. "Zeben, it''s been missing for more than a quarter century. The Tribunal will be disbanded after this sitting." "There was no accident.
The king and queen died at my hand. It was simple enough to capsize the boat, a charge in the motor. But they did not find the boy''s body. He is still alive." Civelli''s eyes widened in fascinated horror. A twenty-fiveyear-old mystery, an urban legend proven true. "Civelli, I want you to find the obelisk." "What do I do when I find it?" "Bring it to me.
I have another task for you as well, Civelli." "Yes?" "Kill Phillip Turman." Civelli didn''t blink. "Why me, Zeben? Why not one of your minions, I mean, men?" "The betrayal of Scimitar runs deep, I do not know who to trust," Zeben admitted. "You trust me?" Civelli gave a short laugh. "Why?" "Greed rules you, as surely as power is mine to command. I will pay you twenty million dollars if I ascend to the throne. You have one month to comply.
" With that, Zeben turned away to watch the water. Taking his cue, Civelli stood. "Where do I start?" Civelli asked. "Where weak men masquerade as kings. America." Chapter One The panic rises in his throat. He can hear his ragged breathing. The air fills with the acrid stench of sulfur.
In the satellite hut in Jafir, metal screams from the force of being pulled from its moors. A beam falls and midnight comes, shot through with fire. The cell is cramped and dank. Moaning from prisoners sounds in the twilight that hangs unchanged despite the passing hours. Dawn cannot penetrate the mounds of concrete that shroud his hell. When the guards come to drag him to the room, he pleads for mercy, futile words that only earn him more pain. Zeben commands his loyalty, and he pretends to believe. Madness gleams in the old man''s eyes, quivers in his voice as he foretells his destruction of the world.
Each day, the truth mocks him, but he tries not to believe. They will not forget him, but they will abandon him. Then the truth is clear, when years pass with no rescue. He is not Phillip Turman, congressman from Maryland. He is no longer Sphinx, agent and comrade. He is forsaken. Phillip shot up, the soft navy cotton falling to his waist. He fumbled for the lamp.
The light, dim and unsatisfying, barely illumined the room. As the nightmare receded, he glanced at the digital clock that flashed a blurry red 4:37 a.m. At least he''d gotten three hours of sleep this time, he thought ruefully, staring out the eastern exposure from the window in his bedroom. The sun had yet to take a stab at the morning. On the bedside table, the phone jangled loudly. Phillip lifted the receiver. "Hi, Dad," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
Right on schedule. "Hi, yourself. Didn''t wake you, did I?" Jake Turman set his fishing pole by the cabinet and cradled the phone to his neck. The weariness troubled him, as did the alertness in Phillip''s voice. The nightmar.