an oasis in the Great Syrian Desert, on a flat plain covered with desert pavement.” He smiled, shrugged and said to Lily, “It’s just north of T3.”
“The Syrians call it Tadmor,” Jalil added. “There’s nothing there now, except for a small fort for the French Foreign Legion and the Syrian Camel Corp. That, and a few ugly houses.”
Palmyra, Bride of the Desert, an oasis on the road to the riches of the Far East. Zenobia defeated the Romans as queen of Palmyra, one of a long line of fabulous warrior queens that intrigued Lily. Zenobia rode into battle fearless and passionate, hair flowing, breast exposed. Lily sometimes associated the ancient Greek myths of the Amazons with this tradition of warrior queens.
Palmyra was near the T3 pumping station of the pipeline that led through Syria. It made sense. They were here because of the pipelines, one that led through Trans-Jordan to Haifa that supplied the British with oil, the other that ran through Nazi controlled Syria and supplied the Axis.
But there was more to it than that. They kept moving toward Iraq, the Iraq governed by a child who had inherited the throne through the machinations of the romantic, manipulative British heiress, al Khatun.
Iraq oil held the balance that fed the campaigns of the British and the Axis. And the linchpin was a sad-eyed child.
Rashid Ali was in exile in Berlin, Glubb had said. But suppose he was in Syria?
Lily put her hand on Gideon’s arm. “I’ll go with you, of course.”
“It could be dangerous.”
“I’ll watch your back.”
“I don’t know.” Gideon smiled and shook his head. “You don’t have a very good track record watching people’s backs. Eastbourne in Tel el Kurnub, Drury in Tangier, both killed. If it happens a third time, you’ve established a trend.”
“We’d better get going,” Jalil helped them pack up, mounted his horse, and led the motley procession as it turned back to Azraq, with Jalil and Awadh on horseback, Hamud on his camel, and the others in the Jeep.
At the fort, Gideon parked and started toward the gate, then bent down to pick up something from the ground.
“What is it?” Lily asked.
“Looks like Qasim’s knife.” He held out a knife with a tooled black leather handle and sheath. “How did it get here? He had it with him in Wadi Rum.”
Lily shuddered. “Whoever killed Qasim and took his knife is with us, here in Azraq.”
The others arrived one by one and busied themselves watering and hobbling the animals, hitching the horses, couching the camel.
Ibrahim watched them trudge inside. “Lies beget lies,” he said. “Betrayal begets betrayal.”
In the morning, he was gone. The rusted shotgun with the broken barrel from World War I and the training rifle Jalil had brought for Lily were gone with him.
Chapter Eighteen
Today it was just the three of them on their way to check on the pumping station at H5. They were prepared for the day like Boy Scouts, with canteens filled, canvas water bags hanging from the sides of the Jeep, sandwiches in a cooler in the back.
Gideon drove east between the black lava hills along the Haifa-Baghdad road, with Lily in the passenger seat. Great lava boulders lined the road, hulking sentinels of an ancient volcanic eruption.
Jalil sprawled in the back of the Jeep, gripping a large pair of field glasses like a new toy, taking them from the case, raising them to scan the flint-strewn plain and putting them back.
“Seven times magnification.” Jalil patted the binocular case affectionately. “Bausch and Lomb, best make.”
He handed Lily the field glasses. “Take a look.”
She held them up to adjust the focus. The heavy binoculars banged against her cheek when the Jeep hit a bump, and she focused again.
She held the rubber cups of the field glasses tight against her face, scanning the horizon, watching the dust swirling in their wake, and following the base of the low hills rising on either side.
She spotted the slight dip in
“The Syrians call it Tadmor,” Jalil added. “There’s nothing there now, except for a small fort for the French Foreign Legion and the Syrian Camel Corp. That, and a few ugly houses.”
Palmyra, Bride of the Desert, an oasis on the road to the riches of the Far East. Zenobia defeated the Romans as queen of Palmyra, one of a long line of fabulous warrior queens that intrigued Lily. Zenobia rode into battle fearless and passionate, hair flowing, breast exposed. Lily sometimes associated the ancient Greek myths of the Amazons with this tradition of warrior queens.
Palmyra was near the T3 pumping station of the pipeline that led through Syria. It made sense. They were here because of the pipelines, one that led through Trans-Jordan to Haifa that supplied the British with oil, the other that ran through Nazi controlled Syria and supplied the Axis.
But there was more to it than that. They kept moving toward Iraq, the Iraq governed by a child who had inherited the throne through the machinations of the romantic, manipulative British heiress, al Khatun.
Iraq oil held the balance that fed the campaigns of the British and the Axis. And the linchpin was a sad-eyed child.
Rashid Ali was in exile in Berlin, Glubb had said. But suppose he was in Syria?
Lily put her hand on Gideon’s arm. “I’ll go with you, of course.”
“It could be dangerous.”
“I’ll watch your back.”
“I don’t know.” Gideon smiled and shook his head. “You don’t have a very good track record watching people’s backs. Eastbourne in Tel el Kurnub, Drury in Tangier, both killed. If it happens a third time, you’ve established a trend.”
“We’d better get going,” Jalil helped them pack up, mounted his horse, and led the motley procession as it turned back to Azraq, with Jalil and Awadh on horseback, Hamud on his camel, and the others in the Jeep.
At the fort, Gideon parked and started toward the gate, then bent down to pick up something from the ground.
“What is it?” Lily asked.
“Looks like Qasim’s knife.” He held out a knife with a tooled black leather handle and sheath. “How did it get here? He had it with him in Wadi Rum.”
Lily shuddered. “Whoever killed Qasim and took his knife is with us, here in Azraq.”
The others arrived one by one and busied themselves watering and hobbling the animals, hitching the horses, couching the camel.
Ibrahim watched them trudge inside. “Lies beget lies,” he said. “Betrayal begets betrayal.”
In the morning, he was gone. The rusted shotgun with the broken barrel from World War I and the training rifle Jalil had brought for Lily were gone with him.
Chapter Eighteen
Today it was just the three of them on their way to check on the pumping station at H5. They were prepared for the day like Boy Scouts, with canteens filled, canvas water bags hanging from the sides of the Jeep, sandwiches in a cooler in the back.
Gideon drove east between the black lava hills along the Haifa-Baghdad road, with Lily in the passenger seat. Great lava boulders lined the road, hulking sentinels of an ancient volcanic eruption.
Jalil sprawled in the back of the Jeep, gripping a large pair of field glasses like a new toy, taking them from the case, raising them to scan the flint-strewn plain and putting them back.
“Seven times magnification.” Jalil patted the binocular case affectionately. “Bausch and Lomb, best make.”
He handed Lily the field glasses. “Take a look.”
She held them up to adjust the focus. The heavy binoculars banged against her cheek when the Jeep hit a bump, and she focused again.
She held the rubber cups of the field glasses tight against her face, scanning the horizon, watching the dust swirling in their wake, and following the base of the low hills rising on either side.
She spotted the slight dip in
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