Relentless - By Cherry Adair Page 0,47
long, wide, tiled-floor hallways. Discreet security, dressed in dark suits and looking like American Secret Service agents, were strategically positioned so that they didn’t veer off course.
His GPS locating skill had never failed him. The professor had left the basket containing the tassel at the souk for later memory retrieval. The tassel led here. Ergo, Najid and Magee were somehow linked.
“Wow.” Isis eyed the opulence of the house as they were led by a white-robed servant through high-ceilinged hallways with niches holding statues and various artifacts tastefully displayed. “Everything here should be in the museum, and before you suggest it, no, I don’t think anything we’re looking at is a good replica; it’s all the real deal,” she whispered as their shoes echoed on the tiles.
The doors on either side were numerous, and all closed. The intricate hand-painted amber and lapis blue tiled floors cooled the spaces, while the musical sound of unseen fountains and the fragrance of fresh flowers added to the refined ambience of the place.
Having been raised almong similar wealthy trappings, Thorne was unimpressed. It wasn’t a home. The villa was skillfully staged to give the aura of wealth and status, meant not only to showcase the minister’s status and wealth, but also to intimidate.
Been there, done that.
They were eventually led through an arch and shown to a vast living room cooled by slowly circulating ceiling fans assisted by an efficient air-conditioning system. Beverages were offered and accepted, and the servant melted away. He returned within minutes bearing a brass tray holding very English-looking china teacups, a teapot and milk jug, and a plate of various small cakes. Very civilized.
Wide-open French doors overlooked what was either a large pond or a lap pool in a shade-dappled courtyard filled with greenery, lush red flowers, and white upholstered lawn furniture. Sunlight beat onto the floor tiles and bounced an amber reflection off white linen sofas and bronze-striped chairs inside the room.
The coffee table was an alabaster sarcophagus, and an enormous limestone fireplace had bas-relief hieroglyphs carved into the surround, drawing the focus to an enormous carved wooden bust of a woman with curly hair, sloe eyes, and no nose. She reminded Thorne in some bizarre way of Michael Jackson, which made his lips twitch. One entire wall was limestone carved to look exactly like a wall in a tomb, with brightly colored glyphs depicting everyday life in ancient Egypt. The execution was remarkable. But he wasn’t here to admire the minister’s art collection as he prowled the perimeter of the large room, trailing his fingers over priceless antiquities to see if anything popped.
Plenty did. The GPS numbers scrolled in his head like computer code. Nothing jumped out regarding Magee.
Twenty-foot-tall wooden palm trees with black trunks and gilded fronds filled the four corners and led the eye to the intricately painted ceiling overhead. On beauty overload, Thorne half expected Salome to appear and strip off her seven veils. It wasn’t difficult to imagine what Isis’s pale breasts looked like beneath diaphanous scarves, or how her nipples would peak at the brush of his fingers. Inappropriately aroused, he tamped down the image of Isis in nothing but sheer colored silks, and did another circuit of the room before seating himself in one of the numerous striped chairs. He chose carefully—the bright sunlight behind him, but the chair positioned so his back wasn’t toward any doorway. Crossing his legs took care of his semi-erect state, but nothing blotted out the image of Isis spotlit by the sun, wearing nothing but a mist of color.
His leg ached and the back of his neck itched. He ran his palm around his nape so he didn’t grip his thigh. Oblivious to his thoughts, Isis, head down, was clearly edgy as a cat on a hot tin roof as she paced along the outer edge of an area rug the size of a rugby field.
“This carpet should also be in a museum,” she said sotto voce as she paced. “This was probably woven in the sixteenth century, and yet even muted, look how beautiful the colors are still.” She crouched down, disappearing behind the back of a sofa. “Wool. Asymmetrical pile…” she murmured to herself. Thorne imagined her stroking the damned carpet and all the hair on his body lifted in response.
“Based on an old Persian design—Egyptian wool, and the workmanship indicates Cairene weavers. They, along with quantities of Egyptian wool, were taken to the court in Istanbul—”
“I don’t give a damn how old the carpet