The flight to Luxor was little more than a hop to the south, upriver along the Nile. Jess kept the abaya on, which somehow increased his frustration.
He wanted to touch her. It must be the abaya, the symbol that said she was untouchable, that made him yearn for even the smallest contact. To run his hands beneath her voluminous sleeves, caressing the silky skin of her arm. Was it bare up to her shoulder? He caught glimpses of her wrist and could only guess at what she wore. Falling a pace behind her in the Luxor airport as they walked to their hired van, he fastened his gaze on the sway of her hips and the slightest hint of her body’s shape beneath the ankle-length robe. The faint outline of her thigh against the fabric was enough to remind him of how her long legs looked when molded by tight jeans. Which reminded him that he’d come damn close to taking them off. Taking everything off.
Damn, he was becoming too obsessed. And what was she wearing under that thing, anyway?
He sat next to her in the van but she didn’t look at him. She sat forward, her face nearly pressed to the tinted glass as they drove through Luxor, staring at the mix of cars, motor scooters, horse and donkey carts, and foot traffic. Blaring horns and yells from street vendors were only partially muted, the business of daily life in Luxor a noisy affair even in their insulated bubble. He remembered his first visits to bustling Middle Eastern cities, and the sensory assault of sounds, sights, and smells, all of them so foreign. He’d been amazed and curious, and wondered if Wally’s daughter would have the same reaction.
“What do you think of Luxor?” he asked.
She turned enormous eyes on him, apparently struggling for words. “It’s so, so, different.”
She looked pale even in contrast to the white hijab, and his stomach sank. She was terrified.
Next to him, Kyle raised his eyebrows, no doubt with the same worry that he felt: how in the world would their scared little rabbit ever figure out the clue hidden in Wally’s story?
She was trying to be brave. He knew it because she didn’t complain or question, even though her hands bunched and twisted the fine fabric of her abaya until the area over her lap was wrinkled. As the streets narrowed and the crumbling buildings of Luxor crowded in, her shoulders tensed and her arms were clamped rigidly against her sides. When they pulled up in front of a bright blue door, she eyed it, then stiffened and swallowed hard, as if it might be a portal to the underworld. Avery helped her out, the only one allowed physical contact with her while maintaining their cover.
He stood close by, alert and protective, his bodyguard role the only real part of their cover story. If they did have a mole on their team, and if Jess came close to figuring out Wally’s information, her life was in peril. Until then, he figured they were safe. No informant would give himself—or herself—away unless he absolutely had to.
Jess blinked at the blue door, then at the doorway a few yards up the street where three men sat on the low stoop, sharing a hookah pipe and watching them, openly curious. She stepped back abruptly as a brown mutt ran past, followed by a laughing boy of about eight. The dog and boy both disappeared into the stall of a rug vendor a few doors down, followed by a woman’s loud voice scolding them in Arabic. Jess looked frozen in place, and he wondered how long it would take her to thaw.
“The key,” their driver said, handing it to him.
Donovan took it, offering money in return, then adding a tip. Not enough to make them stand out, just enough to make them seem prosperous and aware of the cultural norms—exactly what their cover story demanded.
As the cab left, a man’s voice suddenly sang out in a low musical note overhead, the sound gradually swelling until it filled the air with the slightly hoarse, mechanical quality of a recording. Jess raised her head as if searching for the source. The call trilled up and down in the Muslim noon adhan, weaving through the constant background of honking, braying, and the revving of motorbikes. “The Islamic call to prayer,” he explained. “Rather than have a singer in every mosque, they broadcast it over the city.”
“Every day?”
“Five times a day. You’ll tune it out after a while.”
She looked doubtful.
Kyle and Mitch hefted their bags and Donovan unlocked the door. From behind an interior door on the left, cooking smells wafted into the warm afternoon air, scented with a strange spice Donovan couldn’t name but associated with lamb. Ahead, a stairway yawned cool and dark. “Welcome home,” he told Jess. “All the way up, third floor.”
She bit her lower lip and walked in.
…
Jess took a deep breath and felt her tension ease, probably because the big living room looked more familiar than everything outside. Two couches and several chairs formed a seating group with tables and lamps, with a flat-screen TV in one corner. The sole window wasn’t large, but the low level of sunlight made the room seem cooler. Overhead, the large paddles of a ceiling fan turned lazily, circulating air. Jess wasted no time in yanking the hijab from her head and stripping off the encompassing abaya. Freedom. Tossing them onto a chair, she spun, holding her arms out like a five-year-old on a playground. It was liberating, almost like nudity, to feel air against the skin of her arms and on her legs below her knee-length skirt. Suddenly aware of an audience, she paused. In that first moment she caught Donovan’s eye, startled by a flash of something that looked like raw hunger. The next second Mitch gave a whoop, threw down the bags he carried, and grabbed her up in an exuberant dance, swinging her in two full circles before letting her feet touch the floor.