Narice awakened around noon to the smells of coffee and bacon. Turning over in the bed, she snuggled deeper, intending to sleep longer but the brief brush with consciousness made her remember where she was, and then it all came back—the encounter with Ridley, her kidnapping, her father’s burial. She wondered if things could get any worse? Probably, said the cynic inside. Probably.
She got up and walked the short distance to the bathroom. On the way she saw that she’d slept in her suit and shrugged it off. She’d been so drained this morning the moment her head hit the pillow, she’d immediately fallen asleep. The six-hundred-dollar ensemble was a wrinkled mess, but she didn’t care; she just wanted a shower.
Before stripping off her clothes, though, Narice made sure the lock on the bathroom door worked. Satisfied, she took care of her morning needs, then stepped into the glass stall. The spray was hot and powerful, a perfect combination for a woman trying to pull herself back together.
Dressed in a pair of jeans, a white silk Tee, and carrying the blue silk jacket she’d picked up in Barcelona last year, Narice came downstairs. Saint was at the stove tending bacon frying in a skillet.
“Hello,” he called out. “Hope you don’t mind having breakfast. I’m cooking enough for two if you want some.”
A kidnapper who cooked breakfast at noon, and in sunglasses, no less. She noted that at least he’d taken off the High Noon coat. The navy turtleneck and the worn pair of jeans showed off the lean fitness of his six-foot-plus frame. The army boots were as dirty as they’d been earlier and he still hadn’t shaved.
“Do you eat bread?” he asked, now standing by the toaster.
She found the question odd. “Yes, why?”
“Fashion types like you don’t always eat bread. Didn’t want to waste it.”
“Fashion types?” she asked skeptically, coolly.
“Yeah.” He dropped the bread into the slots, then went back to the skillet where the bacon was frying nicely.
Narice took a seat on one of the counter’s stools and drawled, “And here I thought I was just a kidnap victim.”
He grinned a bit. “Just going by the way you dress.”
“And if I judged you by the way you dress, what would you be, besides a kidnapper?”
“Ouch,” he yelped. “You’re hard on a brother.” Using a long-handled fork he lifted the now-done bacon from the pan and laid it on a paper towel–covered plate. “My sister says I look like an outlaw.”
“Does she know you kidnap women?”
He made an elaborate show of thinking that over, then said, “Nope.” He added, “Did I mention that I’m with the good guys?”
“You did.”
“You’re not acting like you believe me.”
“Maybe, because I don’t.”
“You think a bad guy would cook you this kind of breakfast, at this time of day?” he asked, stirring what appeared to be a small pot of grits. “Bad guys would feed you mouse burgers.”
She couldn’t help it. She smiled.
He paused for a moment to watch her. “I wondered if you knew how to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Smile.”
Narice tried to shrug it off. “Okay, so you’re charming. Proves nothing.”
“You think I’m charming?”
“I think you’re fishing for compliments.”
“Am I?”
He set a plate before her that had on it scrambled eggs, bacon, and a small steaming helping of grits. She looked into the dark glasses and did her best to ignore the pure male essence he exuded. “Yes, you are, but thanks for breakfast anyway.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, then went to fix his own plate.
The meal was surprisingly good.
He asked, “How’s my cooking?”
“Not bad. They teach you this in kidnapper school?”
“Yep. First day.”
She met his shaded eyes. “You get an A.”
“Thanks.”
“Why do you wear sunglasses indoors?”
“I’m nocturnal.”
Her voice was skeptical. “Nocturnal.”
“Yeah, sorta like a cheetah.”
She shook her head. A nocturnal kidnapper.
He raised his cup of coffee to his lips. “Besides, Parliamentfunkadelic says you can’t be cool without your shades.”
Skepticism colored her tone once more. “Parliamentfunkadelic.”
“You know, Sir Nose. George Clinton. The P-funk?”
She wondered how many women melted on the spot under his golden, unshaven good looks. He was insane, but gorgeous. “I know who they are.”
“Good.” He had the nerve to grin.
Her heart had the nerve to skip a beat. Angry at herself for softening to a man who’d snatched her off the street and was holding her against her will, she asked, “Is there any juice?”
He observed her for a long moment. “In the fridge. Stuff gives me hives, but help yourself.”
Glad to put some distance between herself and him, even if for just a few seconds, Narice slid from the stool. Opening the fridge she took out the slim, still sealed carton and poured herself a small glass. She took a deep swallow. The orange juice was cold and refreshing; just what she needed to put herself back in control.
Saint ate his breakfast and silently watched her. Earlier, dressed in her expensive suit and shoes, she’d been the CEO headmistress. Now she looked a lot more regular dressed in the jeans and the blouse; if you ignored the little silk jacket draped over her chair. The short-heeled mules on her feet were probably as pricey as the jacket, but she seemed more approachable; less formal in spite of the flawless makeup, the perfectly arched eyebrows, and the laid, short-cut perm.
When she bent to put the juice back into the fridge, he found himself viewing her from another angle. She was well put together. The dossier on her said she was thirty-seven, but her body was still fit. It was a woman’s body and had a curvy thing going on that definitely pleased a brother’s eye. And the sister could run. He was going to have to keep a close eye on this one.
Narice returned to the counter with her glass of juice. “You know, when I don’t show up in Baltimore in a few days, my friends are going to start to worry and then call the police.” It was spring break for her school.
“And?”
“And people are going to start looking for me.”
“Good for them.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Good friends are hard to find.”
Narice’s lips tightened. She didn’t like being patronized. “Well, since you think I’m such a fashion plate, I’ll make sure I wear my best suit to your trial.”
“You do that,” he said, giving her another male grin. Getting to his feet, he picked up their plates and walked the short distance to the sink. “You should get your suitcase. Soon as I put this stuff in the dishwasher, we’re outta here.”
He then looked her way and said, “I know this has been hard—you just buried your father and now all this drama.”
She didn’t respond.
“I’m on your side. Believe that.”
Narice wasn’t convinced. “Put yourself in my place. Would you trust you?”
Saint didn’t lie. “Probably not, so how can I prove it? Have I hurt you in any way?”
“No.”
“Threatened you with a weapon?”
“No. Ridley did, though.”
“Then, how about I show you my ID?”
“ID can be forged. I had two students who got in big trouble last year for making fake five-dollar bills on their computers, but let me see it.”
He went over to his coat and fished his wallet out of one of his many pockets. He handed it to her.
Narice compared the face in the photo to the man standing next to her. They were the same. When Narice first opened her school, the daughter of the then vice-president had been one of her students, so Narice had become very familiar with Secret Service ID and Saint’s certainly looked real. She handed it back.
Saint waited for her to say something, and when she didn’t, he asked, “So?”
“So, what?”
“Do you believe me now?” Saint found her to be an exasperating challenge of a woman.
She shrugged. “At this point, I don’t know what to believe, but let’s go and see this queen of yours.”
Saint watched her head up the stairs to retrieve her suitcase and all he could think was God, she is fine. A woman with a body and face like that could make a man sell out his country. Under the circumstances, she appeared to be holding up well and he found that impressive. Even more impressive—no tears, no hysterics. He wished he could tell her more, though. She’d earned it.
A few minutes later, they left the room and he put her suitcase in the car’s small trunk.
Narice said, “How much money would it take for you to let me walk away? You can just say I escaped.”
He closed the trunk. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
He chuckled, “And ruin my reputation. No thanks.”
He opened the car door for her. She stared up. He lifted an eyebrow. Sighing aloud, the thwarted Narice got in.
The highway signs led them into downtown Grand Rapids, the state’s second largest city. When he eased the car into the valet parking lane of a large stately hotel, she didn’t know what to think. The red-coated doormen politely held open the door and the man she knew as Saint escorted her inside. The lobby had frescos painted on the high ceilings, ornate cherrywood furniture and a sedate air that exuded old money. He led her past the highly polished desk where smiling scrubbed faces greeted arriving and departing guests, and over to the bank of elevators. Narice had a thousand questions but kept them to herself because evidently hell would freeze over before he gave her any real answers.
They emerged onto the twelfth floor and stepped out into a carpeted hallway that was as hushed as it was elegant. Lush green plants in foot-high planters lined the hallway walls. The carpet was so thick she couldn’t hear her own footsteps. At the far end of the hall were two burly men dressed in blue business suits, standing on either side of the last door. Both were brown-skinned men with foreign features that reminded Narice of the Ethiopian uncles of one of her students.
As Narice and Saint approached, one of the men smiled, showing beautiful white teeth, “Welcome back, Mr. St. Martin. Is this the lady?”
Her escort nodded. “The bad guys almost beat me to her, though.”
“They are like cockroaches,” the man answered with disdain, “but I’m sure The Majesty will be pleased that you played the role of champion.”
The man then turned his attention to Narice. “Welcome.”
“Thank you,” she replied warily. She now had more questions than ever. It was obvious that English was not his native language, but he smiled at her as easily as if she were kin. What did this all mean? And who in the world was The Majesty? She thought the proper title for a ruler would be Her or His Majesty.
Once again she was ushered forward with her questions unanswered. The expansive suite had the rich exotic smell of incenses and perfumes. Amidst the hotel’s conservative cherrywood furniture, pillows brocaded in striking ethnic patterns were spread about the carpeted floor like vivid desert flowers.
Areas of the room were shrouded behind gossamer-thin veils hemmed in silk. Bearded old men with brown skin and wearing sandals moved about silently. A few of them met her eyes but dropped them immediately and withdrew. Narice shot Saint a puzzled look, but the sound of a gong drew her attention away.
The deep note resonated in the air for a long moment before fading away. As the silence returned, a small group of men, also dressed in white, processed in.
Narice couldn’t say if these were the same men she’d seen in the room earlier, but they certainly looked old enough. She’d be willing to bet a few of them had to be over a hundred.
When the procession halted, two younger men entered carrying a large gilded chair. It was opulently upholstered in bold purple velvet and embroidered with a large black griffin on the chair’s back. The old men parted like the Red Sea so the chair could be placed between them. Then a man and a veiled woman entered. The woman had her hand resting gracefully upon her escort’s arm. He was robed in white. Her robes were purple and underskirted with black. The purple and black scarf covering her hair flowed to her waist and had the sheen of polished silk. She looked old, but determining her true age was impossible. The veil revealed only that her skin was brown and her eyes, the color of gold.
The woman took a seat in the gilded chair, and the escort moved back to stand with the other men. Narice realized she’d been holding her breath and that her heart was pumping. Taking in a deep breath she calmed herself and prayed nobody could see her shaking.
At first, the woman didn’t say anything at all, spending the moment studying Narice as if measuring her for something. Seemingly satisfied she turned away and focused her golden eyes on Saint. “It is good to see you again, Mr. St. Martin.” Her voice radiated quiet power.
He responded by bowing solemnly. “It’s good to see you again too, Majesty.”
He’d removed the shades and Narice was mildly impressed by his show of respect.
He then settled his green eyes on Narice. “May I present, Narice Jordan. She is the daughter of the Keeper.”
The queen inclined her head. “Ms. Jordan. I was saddened to learn of your father’s death. My condolences.”
Narice had no idea how this woman knew her father or why he was being referred to as the Keeper, but she responded genuinely, “Thank you.”
“Let me also apologize for bringing you here under such mysterious circumstances. I’m sure you must be wondering what this is all about?”
Narice didn’t lie. “Yes.”
“Well, soon you will know all. For now, you are my guest. With your permission, my ladies will make you comfortable. I have some things I must discuss with Mr. St. Martin first and then you will join us. It will not be long.”
Narice could see the old men assessing her. One man, the escort, had outright skepticism on his hawk-nosed face. Narice turned away from his burning gaze and refocused her attention on the woman in the chair. “Do I have a choice in any of this?”
Although Narice couldn’t see beneath the veil, she sensed the woman smile. “Certainly you have a choice,” she said. “You can stay and be my guest, or opt to leave, in which case you will be killed.”
Narice stiffened. Her eyes flew to Saint, but his were trained on The Majesty.
The woman explained in a kind yet steel-edged voice, “We’re not playing a child’s game here, Ms. Jordan. The people who murdered your father are my enemies as well, and they will stop at nothing to attain their goals. If you leave here and fall into their hands, they can use you against me. If you are dead, they cannot.”
It was if Narice had fallen down the rabbit hole and awakened in a North African version of Wonderland. On the throne sat the Red Queen, and Narice had the misfortune of being Alice. Narice had no idea what this knowledge The Majesty referred to consisted of, or the identities of the people responsible for her father’s death, but in order to find out, Narice needed to be alive. “Then I will be honored to be your guest.”
The Majesty nodded. “I knew you had the mettle for this journey, Ms. Jordan, though some around me had their doubts.”
The last few words were obviously a jab at someone because it set off a lot of tight jaws amongst the men in white, especially the escort with the hawk’s face. This is not a sister to be messed with, Narice thought.
The Majesty clapped her hands and a young woman wrapped in emerald green robes appeared from behind the thin curtains. She bowed respectfully to The Majesty, who said in return, “Fulani, take Ms. Jordan and make her comfortable. I will call for her in time.” The Majesty spoke then to Narice. “You are in good hands.”
Fulani, who appeared to be in her twenties, then turned and said to Narice. “Please follow me, Ms. Jordan.”
Narice gave Saint a questioning look. He nodded almost imperceptibly, so she followed Fulani through the fluttering transparent draping and deeper into the suite.
Once there, she was shown into a bedroom that had a large adjoining bath complete with an onyx Jacuzzi tub.
Fulani said, “It is our custom to bathe before having an official audience with The Majesty, so I will draw you a bath.”
Narice had showered this morning, but after her harrowing adventures, the prospect of a long soak in a Jacuzzi was just what the doctor ordered. Being the head of a school whose pupils came from all over the globe, Narice was very cognizant of custom and the value in respecting different cultures. If she had to bathe in order to get the information she needed about why her father was killed and to keep the Red Queen from screaming, “Off with her head!” then she would take a bath. “Why is your Queen called The Majesty and not Her Majesty,” Narice asked Fulani.
“Our title has no gender. The ruler is The Supreme, The All, The Anointed. The Majesty,” she said simply.
Narice thought she understood now. “How long have you been with the queen?”
“Fourteen years. I began service when I was six. The Majesty has made it possible for girls like me to attend school. At home, girls are forbidden.”
“So, she has been good to you?”
“Yes, she has. Now, I must see to the bath.”
And what a glorious bath it turned out to be. After sipping on a cup of herbal tea, Narice eased into the warm scented water and just knew she had died and gone to heaven. The temperature was perfect, the scents relaxing. She leaned her head back on the little terry pillow Fulani supplied and closed her eyes.
On the other side of the wall, Saint lay on his stomach on the bed. The towel over his butt was all he had on in order to facilitate the oiling and massaging of his now clean but tired body by two of The Majesty’s female servants. The years of sneaking and hiding and running and skulking were starting to catch up with him physically. The leg he’d broken in Tibet ten years ago now ached every time the weather changed. His left shoulder, dislocated five years ago in a bar fight in Mexico, had been set, but was never the same since. On his thirty-six-year-old body were knife wounds from Jamaica, stitches from Portugal, and the remnants of a bullet he’d taken in Thailand to go along with an international collection of long-ago healed bruises and contusions. Saint was a mercenary. His specialty—intelligence. He began his career as member of the U.S. Army and had climbed the ranks to the top of his field by way of the many-acronymed clandestine agencies that operated under the official government radar. Eight years ago, he officially retired, taking with him his reputation for stealth, discretion, and success. He was now a highly paid freelancer; hired by governments, the U.S. included, multinational corporations, and private citizens for shadowy jobs big and small. It was a life Saint enjoyed and still got a rush from, even if he did sometimes feel like he was getting too old. Like now.
When the call came in about this job for The Majesty, he’d had been in the jungles of Belize tracking a band of grave robbers on behalf of the Belize Antiquities Ministry. The thieves had made off with the treasures found in a newly discovered Mayan temple, and the Ministry wanted them back. Saint and a small band of the country’s soldiers found the men, but not before suffering through ten days of sleeping on the ground, eating bad food and fighting insects the size of pigeons.
Now, less than twenty-four hours later, he was here, the tiredness of the Belize jungles being stroked away by soft female hands and his body responding in typical male fashion. He shifted his position a little to accommodate his arousal. He’d given The Majesty the letter sent to her by the President, and afterwards, she’d made it clear that the women were at his disposal, but he’d have to take a rain check on the offer; the President and his advisors were sure The Majesty had a mole in her entourage reporting her every move back to the generals ruling her country, so he needed to be clearheaded in order to assess the players in this drama. Knocking boots with the two doe-eyed lovelies now working their hands slowly up and down the backs of his thighs and legs would leave his senses dulled and lazy.
He also had the curvy Ms. Jordan to keep an eye on. He wondered what it would be like to have her hands giving him this massage. He imagined her hands would be firm yet soft. In his mind’s eye he could feel the way she’d knead, then stroke him. The arousal resulting from that fantasy made him adjust his position again. He had no intentions of turning the fantasy into reality, though. Had he met her under different circumstances he might not mind exploring the intricacies of Narice Jordan, but this was a job and he took his work seriously. She was hard not to think about, however. The question she’d asked The Majesty about choices hadn’t really surprised him. He already knew that Narice Jordan was no shrinking violet. For a woman who’d been kidnapped twice last night, she’d shown steel beneath all that designer wear. On the other hand, The Majesty’s answer to Narice’s question hadn’t been a surprise either. Of course, he wasn’t going to allow anyone to take Narice’s life, but The Majesty had been correct about the ruthlessness of the other side. If Narice were to fall into their hands, they’d get the information they were after, then kill her.
So, as tired as he was, Saint was about to embark on another adventure, this time with a curvy headmistress he had no business fantasizing about.
Dressed in a traditional dress that Narice thought looked very much like a sari, she followed Fulani to the room where the audience would be held. The dress was drab brown, but Narice could smell the rich scents of the oils and perfumes the women had worked into her skin. They’d covered her hair with a long cotton scarf the same shade of the dress. Fulani had even supplied Narice with a pair of soft black shoes. Narice looked like a wren on the outside but beneath her clothing, all the pampering and oiling made her feel like a Bird of Paradise.
Narice saw that The Majesty, and the hawk-faced escort were already seated on the brocaded pillows that covered the floor of the large room. Fulani exited silently. Beside The Majesty was a small table. On it sat a sparkling white china tea service. Saint was there too, wearing his dark glasses and dressed in a simple brown tunic and a matching pair of loose-fitting trousers. Narice noted his brown socks as she sat on one of the pillows near him. She wondered what he and The Majesty had talked about.
The Majesty said, “Ah, Ms. Jordan, you honor us by wearing the cha so elegantly.”
Narice knew from talking with Fulani that cha was the name of the dress she had on. Fulani also told Narice that The Majesty never allowed herself to be upstaged by another woman in any way, thus the reason Narice had been given the simple brown gown. The Majesty on the other hand was grandly dressed in a cha of embroidered purple silk that on close inspection appeared shiny from age and wear.
The Majesty then introduced the man at her side.
“Ms. Jordan, this is my prime minister. He is named Farouk.”
Narice inclined her head his way. She remembered the stormy look he’d given her earlier. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.
He nodded back. “Welcome, Ms. Jordan.”
The Majesty said, “Now, we will have tea and discuss our problem.”
She had a servant pour everyone a cup and then she asked, “Ms. Jordan, let me begin by telling you about the Eye and how it ties to my country, Nagal. The Eye originally belonged to Makeda, the woman the Old Testament calls the Queen of Sheba.”
Narice was surprised by that and wondered how The Majesty knew Sheba’s given name.
The Majesty was continuing, “When Makeda journeyed to King Solomon’s court, she brought him many gifts. One of which was a brilliant blue diamond we now call the Eye of Sheba.”
The Majesty paused and her golden eyes turned on Narice. “How well do you know your Bible, Ms. Jordan.”
“Probably not as well as I should.”
She smiled softly. “Makeda returned home carrying Solomon’s child. She bore him a son and she named him Ibn-al-Hakim, which means son of the wise man. In the Bible he is called Melenek, and is said to have stolen the Ark of the Covenant.”
Narice knew the Ark had been given to the Israelites by God. Her only other reference to the icon was the movie Raiders of the Lost Ark. She shook herself and settled her attention back on the queen.
“Our legends say Melenek took something else, too. The Eye. Through time and marriage it found its way into my family. It became the symbol of the Nagal monarchy, and our tie to the great queen Makeda.”
Narice found the story fascinating. “So how does my father figure into all of this?”
“When Rommel and his Nazis overran Nagal during WWII, my grandfather, the king, gave the Eye to your father to keep it out of the hands of the Germans.”
Narice knew that her father had served in northern Africa during the war, but he’d never mentioned meeting a royal family.
“Your father promised to smuggle the Eye out of the country and to keep it safe until my grandfather sent for it, but after the war, generals in our army staged a coup. My grandfather was killed in the fighting. His heir, my father, was executed shortly thereafter. My grandmother, mother and I were forced to flee our home or suffer the same fate.”
Narice asked, “Where did you go?”
“Paris, where my mother had relatives.” She quieted for a moment as if thinking back, then said, “I am the last of the Nagal royal line. Over the years the old generals were replaced by new ones, but they all cared more about power than the people.”
“Why do you need the Eye?”
“Because according to the prophecy, when the Eye is returned to its home prosperity will return as well.” “And you believe my father has had it all this time?”
“We believe so, yes.”
Farouk leaned across the table and stated bluntly, “And now, we want it returned.”
Narice held his glare. “Fine. Just tell me where it is.”
Saint weighed in for the first time. “Nobody knows. Everybody assumes your father hid it somewhere for safekeeping.”
Narice wasn’t convinced. “He never mentioned anything to me.”
“Are you certain?” The Majesty asked.
“Very.”
Farouk asked tightly, “If he did hide it, where might it be?”
Narice shrugged. “I have no idea.”
The prime minister’s face said he didn’t believe her, but Narice had no control over what he believed.
Saint asked, “What about his acquaintances, friends, would they be of any help?”
Narice shrugged again. “Uncle Willie might know.”
“Where’s he live?”
“Toledo.”
The Majesty asked, “This Uncle Willie is your blood?”
Narice shook her head. “No, but he was my father’s best friend. If Daddy told anyone about this it would be Willie. They served in the army together?”
“Then we start the search there,” Saint declared.
The Majesty seemed pleased. “A starting point.”
Narice wasn’t sure, but she kept it to herself. “So, who is Ridley, and how is he involved?” Narice remembered how terrified she’d been in the cab.
Farouk’s pale brown face twisted with distaste. “He serves the generals as their prime minister. He is after the Eye, too.”
Narice hoped to not run into him again. “Ridley recognized your voice, Saint. He must know you well.”
“He does,” was all he said.
Narice studied him and wondered what he’d meant, but his tone let her know she’d get no further explanation, at least not now, so she didn’t press him. She did have another question, though, and hoped someone had an answer. “What about my father’s death. Do you know who set the fire?”
Farouk answered, “All roads lead to the generals and their agents. If you help us the killers will be brought to justice.”
Having the arsonist convicted was a priority for Narice, but did she really want to get involved in all this? The sane parts of herself said no, but Simon Jordan had been an honorable man and would have wanted the Eye returned to its rightful owners. As his daughter she had a familial responsibility to pick up where he left off so that that his pledge to The Majesty’s family could be kept. She knew in her heart that he would want her to help these people and to find his killers.
Farouk asked, “Will you help?”
Narice nodded. “If finding the Eye will help put the people who murdered my father behind bars, I’m all yours.”
The Majesty smiled. “Good. Now, we have less than two weeks.”
“This has a timetable, too?”
“Yes, in about thirty days, your state department will be proposing a treaty that will give your government access to a very strategic strip of land in my country that is on the Red Sea. With all the turmoil in the Middle East, they’ve been after the port for years. The U.S. wants the generals to hold an open election, but the generals know that without the Eye the people will not vote for their candidate. Without the Eye the generals are nothing more than armed squatters on my family’s throne.”
“Why did you wait so long to return to your country?” Narice asked
“The political climate was not right, and the rebels were not strong enough. Until now. If I can return home with the Eye, the country will vote for the monarchy and throw the generals out.”
“What’s to keep the generals from taking power anyway?”
Saint answered, “The U.S. wants that port, but not if world opinion says they are supporting an illegitimate regime. If the generals don’t have the Eye, the U.S. won’t back them.”
“And if the generals do get their hands on it, then what?”
“It’s a toss up. Some in our government and a few fat-cat corporations want to run their own candidate.”
Narice was almost afraid to ask, “So are they looking for the Eye, too?”
“Probably.”
She shook her head. There were an awful lot of dogs in this hunt, but she’d made up her mind. She wanted in.
The Majesty took a sip of her tea. After setting the cup down, she declared, “It is decided then. Mr. St. Martin and Ms. Jordan will begin the search with the Keeper’s Toledo friend. From there we will see where it leads.”
She stood. “I will see you both soon. May the Eye shine on your quest.”
Then she exited with her hand on Farouk’s arm.