Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Noah
Fahad’s home had transformed from the warm, welcoming sanctuary where Noah had always sought refuge while in Jerusalem to a darkened, desolate place.
Bereft of laughter and the scents of Nasira’s cooking, the main room felt hollow.
Noah sat with his back to the wall, guilt pressing down like a boulder.
Usually filled with the clatter of dishes and children’s laughter, the house now sat cloaked in silence.
The rugs still smelled faintly of saffron and woodsmoke, but the hearth was cold and the cushions stacked instead of scattered.
Even the walls, normally softened by the glow of extinguished brass lamps, seemed sharper in the daylight. A home stripped of life—because of him.
He’d been reckless by involving Fahad in this once he’d found out about Hower’s connection to Blackwell, but Fahad was one of the few people in Jerusalem whom he trusted absolutely.
Returning here last night, after he’d stripped Hower’s car of any recognizable markings and burned it out to a hollow shell, Noah couldn’t help feeling as though he’d betrayed Fahad.
After Noah had explained the situation—his killing of Hower and his driver, the fact that the entire village had witnessed his actions and him speaking in English—Fahad had sent his family to stay with a relative of Nasira’s.
Then Noah and Fahad had set to putting a plan in motion.
Because that’s the type of friend Fahad is. Faithful to the end, even when I’ve abused his trust and hospitality.
Noah’s gaze moved to Fahad, who stood waiting by the door, stroking his salt-and-pepper beard, his brows set in grim determination.
The sheikh’s men had been watching the house since before dawn, when Fahad had sent a servant boy to relay an invitation to the sheikh himself. Whether the sheikh would accept Fahad’s invitation wasn’t clear. He’d already been suspicious of Noah. Now he might think the setup was a trap.
And it was—in a way.
Just not for the sheikh.
Noah couldn’t stay hidden for long. When Hower didn’t turn up, British officials were likely to come looking.
Absent of the evidence that Hower had been Blackwell and with little certainty about how far up the chain of command the rot went, Noah had decided to take his chances spending what little time he might still have as a free man finding a way to expose the corruption—or getting the British government the intelligence Hower had claimed Knight wanted him here for.
If Knight himself was a Blackwell operative, then maybe that evidence would be enough for Noah to save his family, if not himself.
The low growl of an engine broke the silence, distant at first, then growing louder, steadier, and deliberate. Noah moved to the edge of the curtain, heart thudding once before he tamped it down. The tires ground against the dirt road. Whoever it was, they weren’t trying to hide.
Noah squinted toward the window. He stood in the shadows of the room, golden midday sunlight slanting across the floor beside him. The driver pulled off to the side of the dirt road in front of Fahad’s house.
“Sheikh Khalil?” Fahad hissed with a questioning look.
“Alain Roche,” Noah answered in a low voice as the man opened the door and stood. Roche seemed out of place here in his fancy French clothes, and he shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun. He sized up the house for a few moments, his expression entirely neutral.
Since he’d left France, Noah had wondered about the Frenchman—how trustworthy he was, what he might know.
Alastair had sent Jack to him because of his expertise in the region’s politics.
The fact that Roche had immediately turned around and delivered Jack to Knight either spoke of shrewdness in keeping his well-placed contacts like Knight happy … or perhaps something more nefarious.
Perhaps, even, a connection to Blackwell.
Roche approached with his usual smug confidence—just the sort of arrogance Fahad despised. The French, in his eyes, had carved up the Middle East like meat on a butcher’s slab and tossed the Arab leader, Faisal Hussein, from Syria after all he’d done for the Arab revolt.
Noah remembered the first time he saw Faisal—robes of white, eyes that missed nothing. There’d been a gravity to the man, a quiet certainty that peace was possible. That idealism had felt contagious once. Now it was just another casualty of the unending war Britain could never hope to control.
Faisal had been used poorly. Together with his father, the emir of Mecca, and his brother Abdullah who now ruled the Transjordan, Faisal’s dreams had been to join the Arab world under a pan-Arab government, where Moslems—both Sunni and Shia—Arab Christians, and Jews could all live in peace.
The land mandates after the war had robbed him of his “kingdom of Syria” and pushed him into becoming king of Iraq, a land where he was unknown and had been met with a hostile, unwelcome response.
And now he was dead.
Only twelve years after being installed as king of Iraq, Faisal had apparently died of a heart attack the previous September. A heart attack striking a man who was only forty-eight.
Quiet, convenient.
Though Noah had heard whispers of poison and hadn’t trusted the official account then, he trusted it even less now after what Hower’s driver had said about Sharif al-Rashid.
The knock on the door jarred him from his thoughts and he stiffened, his hand tighter against the handle of his gun.
Fahad opened the door. “Mr. Roche,” he said in accented English. “Welcome. Please come in.”
A footstep shuffled as Roche stepped into the dark. He blinked, eyes clearly adjusting. “If it’s all the same to you, I would prefer to remain outside. The air is rather oppressive indoors and—”
Click.
Noah stepped out of the shadows, gun already well aimed. “Hello, Roche.”
“Mon dieu. You’ve taken to theatrics now?” Roche’s eyes locked on Noah, his hands lifting in surrender. Fahad stepped in behind him and pressed his own gun to Roche’s neck, then shut the door with his foot.
Once, Noah might’ve welcomed Roche with a brandy and a conversation about Arab unity. Now, he watched the man as if he were a cornered jackal—because that’s what this war of shadows made of them all.
“You give an odd meaning to the word welcome,” Roche said, tilting his head back, just a fraction, toward Fahad.
“My apologies.” Noah came closer, his menacing stance unwavering. “Fahad is acting at my insistence.”
“The invitation was yours, then. Of course.”
“Indeed,” Noah said with a taut smile. He nodded toward Fahad. “Check him for weapons.”
“You’ll find only a penknife. For utility, not protection. I don’t carry firearms—c’est un peu vulgaire, don’t you think?” Roche said, bristling as Fahad ran his hands over his white linen trousers. “I prefer civility among gentlemen.”
“That’s your mistake, I suppose,” Noah said with a smirk. “You should never make any assumptions about my civility.”
Roche’s eyes darkened. “No, I’m well aware of that, Benson. I tried to tell Captain Knight that your sympathies in the Arab world aren’t as ambiguous as he seemed to think. I’m not na?ve enough to believe you fight for king and empire. Your reputation suggests otherwise.”
Noah didn’t bother with an answer at first. Roche wasn’t wrong about his loyalty to the pan-Arab nationalist cause—not because of his mother’s Egyptian heritage, though, but because it was the only way he saw a path of peace forward for the warring tribes that had lived with centuries of conflict in this region of the world.
And yet …
“I’m here on behalf of Britain, aren’t I?” Noah asked, raising a brow.
For Jack. And to try to buy some security for my family from Knight.
But Roche didn’t need to know or believe that.
Fahad removed a fountain pen from the breast pocket of Roche’s jacket, along with the pocketknife, and handed them to Noah.
Noah waited until Fahad had resumed his place behind Roche with the gun, then slipped his own back into the holster.
He examined both the pocketknife and the pen—the latter revealing a screw top hiding a small pill.
Noah lifted it between his thumb and forefinger, and Roche shrugged.
“A precaution, nothing more. You can’t blame me for not wanting to suffer needlessly, if it comes to it. ”
Likely cyanide, then.
Roche said, “Forgive me, but I prefer to know why I’ve been detained. Or is ambiguity part of the performance?”
Noah frowned, then came even closer. “Your arms, please.”
Roche did as instructed, and Noah checked him for the distinctive Blackwell tattoo.
Nothing.
As he lifted his gaze to meet Roche’s, the man furrowed his brow. “What were you expecting to find?”
“What do you know of Blackwell, Roche?”
Roche froze. Then blanched.
For the first time since Noah had met him, the smugness was gone from his face, fear flickering in his eyes instead. “N-not a thing,” Roche stammered.
“A wise response.” Noah stepped back slowly. “Then I take it you didn’t know Hower was a Blackwell operative?”
“H-Hower?” Roche sputtered.
Interesting. His surprise seemed genuine. Still, Noah couldn’t let his guard down so easily. “Who ordered you and Hower to apprehend Jack and me in France?”
“Captain Knight—I believe. He ordered me to apprehend you, anyway. If you turned up in France. Then Hower found me, said Knight had sent him. That you’d been spotted.”
So it was possible that Hower hadn’t been sent directly by Knight, then. Or perhaps not an MI5 agent at all. “And you verified that Hower worked for MI5?”
Roche stiffened further, if it was possible. “He … knew all about Knight’s orders. I had no reason to question him.”
Noah nodded toward Fahad, who led Roche toward a low, comfortable divan covered with red and gold cushions. Roche sat, beads of sweat now lining his forehead. Clearly he knew enough about Blackwell to understand the seriousness of Noah’s implications.