Chapter 4 #2
Alex grew angry. Clearly he was from some small, primitive village and he had never seen a woman in pants before. Alex had a new headache. Nevertheless, she strode over to him. “I need help,” she began.
He gave her a strange, condescending look, turned, and with a stick, prodded the goat and walked away.
“How rude!” Alex exclaimed. Alex realized she had no choice but to continue on, at least until she found another passerby to ask directions of. And if she was really lucky, a cab would soon appear. If one did, even if it already contained passengers, Alex intended to flag it down.
She tured another corner, combing her hair with her fingertips. Alex saw them at the exact same moment that they saw her.
Two men. Men clad in turbans, colorful, embroidered vests and loose, flowing pants, each wearing a huge scimitar and an ancient pistol. Two men who looked exactly the way Alex had envisioned the Turkish soldiers she had read about in the history books at Columbia.
For a split second Alex stared at the Turks and they stared at her. The men cried out. Alex did not hesitate.
She ran. She ran as hard as she could, the men chasing her.
Her heart had never beat so hard and her legs had never moved so swiftly.
She pumped her arms. She did not have time to assimilate what she had seen, or to comprehend who the men chasing her were.
She knew one thing. She was in dire jeopardy—she could not let them catch her.
She ran down one street and then another, turning corners pell-mell, cutting behind houses and through home-kept gardens.
She ran past piles of refuse. A glance over her shoulder showed her that the men had finally disappeared from view—they were hardly as well conditioned as she was—but Alex did not stop running.
Her lungs threatened to burst. Alex turned another corner and faced the open door of a small stone house.
She saw a dark man clad in colorful robes shuffling about inside.
With a hoarse cry, Alex barreled into his home.
Alex sat on a dark red velvet cushion on the floor, her legs tucked up under her, shaking. The old man had shut the door and bolted it. He was pouring tea.
She was on the verge of tears. She could hardly comprehend what had just happened.
Alex took off her black patent sandals and began rubbing her feet, trying to ward off the tears.
As soon as she returned to her hotel she would call Joseph, she decided.
Maybe she would tell him everything, the entire truth about why she had come to Tripoli.
She had the strangest certainty that he would not be shocked.
But who were those men? Why had they been dressed like nineteenth-century Turkish soldiers? Had they been in costume for some event or parade, or perhaps they were attendants at some historical sight? They had appeared so genuine; soldiers from another era.
The old man approached, his numerous robes flowing about him, handing her a steaming cup of tea. He murmured to her in Arabic, his tone low and soothing.
Alex accepted the delicate cup gratefully and took a sip. It was sweet and delicious. “Shukran,” she said huskily. “Merci beaucoup. I don’t speak your language, I’m sorry.”
He smiled at her. He had kind brown eyes set in a very weathered face.
“I need to use your telephone,” Alex said, glancing around the room.
She did not see a phone. In fact, the old man lived in very primitive conditions.
When Alex had barged in, he had been cooking in an iron pot over an open fire in the room’s hearth.
He had no stove, no refrigerator, and Alex saw no running water.
But she already knew that much of the Middle East lived in conditions far less comfortable than those of the Western world.
“I have to call someone.” She shivered. She had no doubt that those men had wanted to rape her. Why hadn’t she gotten Joseph’s telephone number from him? She hadn’t even taken a receipt for the purchase of the lamp.
The old man murmured soothingly.
Alex sipped the tea, exhaustion seeping through every pore and fiber of her being, even though she had been passed out all night long.
But she did not want to fall asleep. She wanted to return to her hotel.
She wanted to speak to Joseph. He would be comforting, reassuring, she knew.
And she wanted to find Blackwell’s ghost again.
“Have you heard of the Hotel Bab-el-Medina?” she whispered, her voice sounding strange and distant, even to her own ears.
He watched her, unsmiling.
She forced her eyes to remain open. But her lids would not obey her mind, and they closed resolutely.
Her last thought before unconsciousness claimed her again was that this time she had been drugged.
Alex awoke and screamed.
The man looming over her was at least six foot four and black. He straightened, the huge muscles in his bare arms rippling, and backed off a step. That was when Alex noticed the gold collar on his broad, sinewed neck.
Her second scream died without ever being emitted.
She was lying on her back on a couch. Not a Western couch, but a Middle Eastern version, meaning it had no back or arms and sides. Numerous square pillows had been propped behind her, and Alex crushed her spine into them.
And then, through the archway, Alex glimpsed another man approaching.
Her heart accelerated. He was short and dark, and he was dressed in flowing robes and loose trousers, but he was clearly European.
His face was sharp featured and aquiline.
He entered the room and smiled at Alex. His eyes were blue and ice-cold.
“I am so pleased that you are awake, mademoiselle,” he said in accented English.
Alex stood up. She pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Who are you? Why am I here? What do you want?” Was he her captor? Had she been kidnapped? Was she about to become a victim of white slavery?
“My name is Gaston Rigaux,” he said pleasantly. “Are you English?”
Alex crossed her arms. “I am … French. I demand you release me immediately. As a French citizen, I have rights, inalienable rights—and you have violated each and every one of them!”
“Hmm. I would have sworn that you are English or American.” He regarded her with bemusement. “What passion! What beauty. I shall do very well with you.”
Alex did not like his tone or his words. Worse, she did not like the way his eyes kept wandering over her body. She was hugging herself. “That is a very sexist statement.”
He blinked. “You make no sense.”
“Sexist,” Alex said. “Why am I here?”
He smiled at her. “You are different—unique. I can demand a tremendous sum for you.”
Alex stared. This was a nightmare—it could not possibly be reality.
“You should have known better than to wander the streets of Tripoli alone, in such a state of dress,” he said softly—unapologetically.
“You can’t do this,” Alex whispered, beginning to sweat.
“Of course I can. In fact, I have already made appointments to show you to several prospective buyers. A great beauty is always easy to sell.”
Alex thought that she would faint. Her knees felt boneless. She forced herself to take deep gulps of air and to remain standing. Perspiration collected between her breasts. “You cannot sell me like I’m some … some … some object.”
The Frenchman laughed, as if pleased. “But I can—and I will.”
Alex backed away, breathing sharply. “Let me go; you must. I promise I won’t say anything to anyone. I will not go to the police.”
He regarded her with open amusement. “I cannot let you go. But I suppose a ransom might be arranged. Do you have a rich husband? Rich relatives? Rich friends?”
Alex was about to say no, instead she kept her mouth shut, thinking the better of it.
“I did not think so.” He started for the archway. “Rest. Zendar will bring you food and wine. You may use the courtyard as you wish.” With a brief smile, he exited the room.
Alex rushed after him, only to have her way barred by one of the black servants. His expression turned so menacing that she immediately backed away, to stand shivering in the center of the room.
Oh, God, what should she do? The worst had happened. As she should have known. She had been kidnapped to be sold into white slavery. Alex heard herself moan.
And she was so damn weak and so damn exhausted.
Tears suddenly blurred her vision. Where was Blackwell? Why wasn’t he with her now, if not to help her, then to give her moral support? Desperately Alex willed his presence to return to her, but she felt nothing in the air around her, nothing at all.
Alex swiped at her tears, angry with herself, because self-pity would not help anything. She had to be strong, and she had to think. She was a smart woman. Surely she could find a way to outwit her captor and escape.
Alex crossed the room, her back to both guards, and faced another archway.
It opened onto an outdoor courtyard filled with fruit trees, stone benches, and a small inlaid marble pool.
Alex glanced over her shoulder briefly at the guards, but they were ignoring her now.
She stepped outside. Her captor had told her she could use the yard if she wished.
Her captor’s house was on a hill. Now, standing in the center of the courtyard, she could see over the facing wall. The many jumbled, red-tiled rooftops of Tripoli greeted her, and beyond them, a line of jagged, shadowy mountains. Clearly she was facing inland.
Tripoli was surrounded on three sides by water, however, and instantly Alex turned to face the sea.
Beyond the next courtyard wall she glimpsed the many roofs and domes of the palace, where only yesterday she had been a visitor like any other tourist. Somewhere near that palace was the shop where she had met Joseph and bought the lamp.
Alex’s gaze veered to the harbor. Where she expected to see busy wharves and longshoremen and cargo ships and steel trawlers. Instead, she stared, stunned.
Incapable of taking even a single breath.
Unable to move.
Time had stood still. Or gone backward.
For Tripoli Harbor was filled with nineteenth-century ships.