Alex suddenly had a vision of the State Department contacting the Libyan government and demanding an investigation into her disappearance. She inhaled.
She slowly reached for her wallet, opening it. She stared at her credit cards and driver’s license, at her traveler’s checks and the hundred dollars in cash she had been carrying. Then she tossed the black leather wallet aside. She ignored the forged French passport. But she gazed solemnly at her United States passport. Would she ever need it again?
Not if Xavier Blackwell returned for her, as she now hoped daily—and firmly believed—that he would.
Finally she swallowed and looked past the pile of her possessions to what she had avoided looking at all along. The small blue oil lamp lay on its side in the center of the blue and gold bed. Alex did not touch it. She did not dare.
But could it return her to the twentieth century?
Her heart hammered. She had no idea. Hopefully she would never even attempt to answer that question. For Blackwell had to return. Even the clairvoyant had said as much to Murad, and Murad believed her to be a genuine psychic.
Alex was acutely aware of the date, though. It was May 15, 1804. According to the history books she had read, Blackwell was executed at the end of July of this year. Just before Preble’s attack on Tripoli.
Executed for his affair with the Moslem wife of the bashaw’s son.
And that was her.
Alex trembled. So far nothing had happened the way it should. She did not have a lot of cause to believe that Blackwell would return only to be executed by the bashaw. Yet the timing of his return was worrying her. Vastly. She could not ignore what she had learned in the future about the past.
Alex hoped that this would not be a race to the wire. If only Blackwell would return now, two full months before the supposed execution. That would give them plenty of time to escape.
But with every passing day, she grew more anxious and frightened. Where was he? Was he all right?
Without knocking, Zoe opened her door. “Hello. Zohara. I have come to see for myself that you are better.”
Alex gasped, automatically shifting her body to hide all of her twentieth-century possessions. And the blue oil lamp rolled off of the bed. It landed on the floor with a thump.
“What is that?” Zoe cried.
“I want to go shopping with you,” Alex said.
Murad sighed. They were standing on the galleria. “Alex, a week ago you were unconscious and at Death’s gates. I will get everything you have asked me for.”
“I was unconscious two weeks ago, Murad, not one, and I am fine now, and you know it,” Alex shot back, but she was smiling. She took his hand. “I am bored. Remember, I am a twentieth-century woman, used to living my life my way.”
Murad yanked his hand from hers, alarmed. “Don’t speak that way! Someone will hear you! Wasn’t it bad enough that you took all of your strange belongings out of the chest and that funny bag and Zoe almost saw them?”
Alex sobered. “Yes, that was a bad moment, Murad. And what might have happened if Zoe had time-traveled when she picked up the lamp? Ohmygod! I shudder to think of it.” She could not imagine the Moslem woman wandering down Broadway in 1996. Assuming that was where she would have gone. “Let me don my disguise and we can go.”
“Alex, Zoe is suspicious of you—of us. She has had me followed several times since you regained your health. I think she is actively spying on us—again.”
“Perhaps. But you took all my things and hid them so there is no evidence of the truth. She may wish to expose and destroy me, but she cannot.”
Murad sighed.
Alex ignored him and walked back to her room. It felt good to have her health restored. Now she felt vitally alive again, strong and eager to act. If only Blackwell would return!
A short while later, Alex and Murad sauntered down a narrow dirt street leading to the souk where Alex wanted to browse, for lack of something better to do. They were disguised as bedouins. It was a beautiful summer day, but with Blackwell missing, Alex could not fully appreciate it. But as they left the palace behind, Alex began to feel differently. Disturbed, uneasy. She finally realized what her mood shift consisted of: An odd sense of dread-filled anticipation was creeping over her.
And she had the uncanny feeling that Blackwell was close by.
Alex froze, trembling.
The street they were standing on split, one fork bearing right, the other left.
Murad grabbed her arm. “The souk is to the left, Alex.”
Alex shook herself free of her notion, telling herself that she was being fanciful. But she was shaking. She was breathless. “You’re right. Thebedestanis ahead.”
