Frightened, Alex glanced carefully around, but saw no sign of the sailors. She began to breathe easier and she started walking. A teenaged boy, dressed in flowing white robes, was leading a haltered goat across the street a half block ahead of her. Alex did not think too much of his bedouin-style dress, because yesterday she had noticed a few Arabs in very traditional costume, too. Although not with goats. “Please, stop!” She called out somewhat frantically.
The boy glanced at her, then did a double take. He looked at her high wedge sandals and her pants, his eyes widening as they stopped at her crotch. He stood there and oggled her in a shocked manner.
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.
