Rant of Ravens (14 page)

“Oh, you’ve known each other for quite a few years,” Dorothy said.

“Thirty-five, to be exact,” said the sheikh, bending over her hand. “And you must have been just a youngster back then.”

“She was,” Cecilia said, winking at Rachel.

The sheikh was a charmer, just like her own soon-to-be ex-husband, and Rachel smiled sympathetically at Elaina Al-Fassi. She seemed oblivious to the attention.

“Please, won’t you all join Elaina and me for dinner? Mr. Johnson”—the sheikh waved him from behind the bar—“I want you to reset my table for ten. No, wait, eleven, if you care to join us as well. And another round of drinks while we wait.”

Rachel had turned down the drink, but by the time the table was ready, she was wishing she’d indulged. Gertie had made a competition out of flirting with the sheikh, and Cecilia was pouting. Harry, Eric, Forest, and Kirk spent the time talking birds. Elaina Al-Fassi hadn’t said a word.

“I hope you don’t mind my selfishness, placing you beside me,” the sheikh said when they’d finally been seated for dinner. He pulled out Rachel’s chair and spoke softly in her ear. “You’re a lovely girl. I’ve been hoping to have a chance to talk with you over dinner.”

The conversation revolved around food. Rachel ordered a Caesar salad, and the sheikh convinced her to try the elk steak smothered in sauted mushrooms.

Mike Johnson preened. “It’s a specialty of the house.”

Rachel asked for it well done. The sheikh changed her request to medium. “The meat gets tough if you overcook it.”

The more time she spent around him, the more he reminded her of Roger. She was quickly losing her appetite.

While everyone ordered, Rachel looked around the dining room. It dripped with elegance. The tables were draped in burgundy and set with sterling silverware. Linen napkins were fanned open on white china plates edged in cranberry and black. Ice and lemon wedges sparkled inside crystal glasses. Three elk horn chandeliers threw muted light from the ceiling, and flickering candles cast seductive shadows across the diners.

“So, Mrs. Stanhope, where are you from?” asked Sheikh Al-Fassi.

“New York City. I work for a marketing firm in Manhattan.”

“How interesting. Do you like your job?”

His eyes mesmerized her, so dark they appeared black in the wavering light. “Yes, I do.” She told him a little about her work, and about growing up in Chicago. “Where do you live?”

“My wife and I live in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Have you ever been there?”

“No.” Rachel pleated her napkin. “My aunt was, is, supposed to visit there in a couple of weeks.”

“Really?” He turned to Dorothy and Cecilia. “And which one of you lovely ladies is her aunt? Or are you both aunts? Perhaps I should ask which one of you lovely ladies is traveling to my country.”

“Oh my, neither. None of the above.” Dorothy pulled her head between her shoulders like a frightened turtle. “Miriam’s not here.”

“Miriam Tanager is the woman I was telling you about, Sheikh,” Johnson said, his face as impassive as a piece of granite. “The owner of the Raptor House. She’s the one that’s missing.”

The sheikh nodded. “I’m sorry to hear about your aunt’s troubles.”

Rachel wondered what Johnson had told him.

There was an awkward lull in the conversation, then Harry spoke. “I’ve been in Riyadh, I spent almost a year there working on my dissertation. I conducted research on the Houbara bustard.”

Rachel’s mouth went dry. She reached for her glass of water. Another Middle East connection. But if he was guilty, why reveal himself? Wouldn’t he try to keep the information secret?

“What year would that have been?” the sheikh asked.

“Nineteen eighty-six, eighty-seven.”

Rachel suppressed an audible sigh of relief. Two years after Operation Falcon. And if his story was true, she ought to be able to verify the dates.

Harry leaned his elbows on the table, his mustard-and-brown Harris tweed sports jacket clashing with the tablecloth. “I actually witnessed a Bedouin flying his birds while I was there.”

“And did you enjoy that?”

“Of course, though I don’t know much about falconry. Except that it’s a sport that seems to have severely depleted the population of bustard.”

“Your point is well taken.” The sheikh set down his fork and folded his hands. “Falconry is something that goes back to ancient times in my country. My people depended on falcons to hunt meat, supplementing an otherwise meager diet of dates, milk, and bread. It has always been an integral part of desert life.”

“And now?”

“It is a great sport, enjoyed by rich and poor alike. It teaches many things—endurance, strength, and patience.” The sheikh picked up his fork and speared a piece of lettuce. “And we have come to realize that the survival of falconry depends on the conservation of prey and habitat.”

“I overheard you tell Mike that you’re anxious to see the birds fly, Your Highness,” Rachel said, not yet willing to drop the subject. “Are you planning to go hunting while you’re here?”

“Call me Mohammed. And the answer is yes. Tell me, do you like birds, too?”

“I know very little about them.” She assumed he meant raptors.

“They are my favorite creature. Mr. Johnson was telling me about the wonderful work your aunt is doing in raptor rehabilitation. I was hoping to be able to see her facility.”

“You have asked my husband to talk about his true love,” Elaina Al-Fassi said.

“No, my dear, you are my true love. Falconry is only my passion.”

“Sheikh, you do realize you’re talking to a group of birdwatchers?” Johnson said, setting his napkin on the table and signaling the wine steward. The sheikh looked puzzled.

“He means most of us don’t approve of killing birds for sport,” Gertie said.

“While I respect your position, Madam, it’s more than a sport. It’s tradition.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to count me a curmudgeon, too, Mohammed,” Forest said.

“I’m not sure I understand your disapproval. The meat from the hunt is used either to feed the falcon or to feed the master. It’s certainly much more noble than raising chickens.”

Rachel spent a jittery
forty-five minutes listening to a lively debate on the merits and history of hunting in society. By the end of the meal, only one thing was clear. The EPOCH members did not approve of owning wild raptors, and the sheikh thought falconry a noble art. They agreed to disagree.

The first opportunity for investigation came as they got up from dinner and Harry broached the subject with Johnson. “I hear you have a nice set of mews, Mike.”

“
Ja
,” Eric said. “Any chance we could see them?”

“Tonight?” Johnson acted surprised, but he didn’t hesitate. “Anyone interested in a tour, follow me.”

Elaina Al-Fassi rose, and all of the men stood up. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go up to my room now.”

“It was nice meeting you, Your Highness,” Rachel said, unsure what to call a sheikh’s wife.

“And you.” She bowed her head slightly, then walked around the table for a peck on the cheek from the sheikh.

Rachel ducked into the bathroom before joining the others outside. They had started for the barn ahead of her, but she could still hear their voices as she stepped outside and the wind wrapped itself around her bare arms. She wished she’d remembered a jacket.

As she walked toward the circle of pale yellow light shining through the open barn door, the uneven ground forcing her to slow her usual power-walk pace, Rachel marveled at the brilliance of the moon lighting the path. Stars shone in patterns that she only vaguely remembered from school textbooks, unobscured by the permanent glow of the city.

A pebble sneaked its way into her shoe. She stopped at the end of the porch, leaned against the wooden skirt, and slipped off her shoe. A movement from the ranch house caught her attention. A man – Igor – stepped out on the porch and moved in her direction. He drew long on a cigarette, then Frankenstein joined him. Rachel slipped deeper into the shadows.

“She’s here.”

“I know,” Igor said. “I saw her.”

“Did you talk to Raven?”

Raven
? That was the name in Bursau’s notes, the one used by the middleman in the peregrine sale. And with these goons showing up here, it seemed likely they were connected to Mike Johnson’s brigade. Did that mean Johnson had sent them after the disk? Did that make Mike Johnson ‘Raven’?

“He said she’s harmless. The girl told Raven they got squat off that disk. We’re safe for the time being.”

Girl? So there was a woman involved.

“Still, I wish this was finished.”

“Tomorrow. That’s when we send the final message.” Igor took another drag of his cigarette, then stubbed it out on the porch.

Hadn’t Johnson told the sheikh tomorrow was his lucky day? Did the “final message” mean the birds?

“That’s a nasty habit.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a nervous habit.” Igor glanced around as though afraid of being seen, then started down the steps in the direction of the parking lot. “Let’s get out of here.”

Frankenstein followed, and Rachel debated what to do. She didn’t know who Raven was, so going inside the barn to elicit help was out of the question. Getting the license plate number of their vehicle was imperative.

Rachel slipped on her shoe and stepped forward. Gravel crunched under her feet. Igor stopped.

“Did you hear something?”

“No.”

“Listen!”

Rachel froze in place, standing on one leg and holding her breath. She felt like a clumsy flamingo, wavering in the dark.

“You always this nervous, boy?” Frankenstein slapped him on the back. “Let’s fly.”

Rachel exhaled. Pulling off her shoes, she dangled them from her fingers and minced forward in her stockings. The rocks jabbed against the soles of her feet. She looked like an untrained firewalker on hot coals as she moved toward the parking lot. She crouched low, but stuck to the path to avoid any unfriendly cactus in the dark.

The two men approached a late-model pickup truck, blue with a green-and-white license plate. Colorado. She couldn’t read the numbers. Slowly she moved along the row of parked cars separating her from the men.

“Hey!”

Udall’s voice boomed from the porch, causing Rachel to jump and the men to turn. Igor cursed.

“Kirk!” Rachel moved to meet him as he walked toward her.

“You weren’t planning to sneak out on me?”

“Of course not, I was just going to grab something from the car.” She leaned toward him and whispered, “Those are the two men from the cliff.”

“Did you get what you needed?”

Had he heard her? She wished she knew what Igor and Frankenstein were up to. Her back was to them now. “Maybe we should join the others.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea.” He pointed for her to go ahead of him.

Frustrated by her predicament, she avoided looking directly at Igor or the truck. She was still too far away to read the license plate number, but maybe if she steered Kirk closer to the pickup, she’d be able to pick up the numbers.

“Scoot over a row,” she murmured, leaning against him to push him sideways.

Udall refused to cooperate. Veering between two cars, he took off toward the barn. Rachel glanced back. Igor stood on the truck’s running board. The other man started the pickup. Igor saluted.

Rachel threw down a shoe. “Thanks a lot, Udall. Just what did you think you were doing? I needed to get the license plate number off that truck.”

“You should have said something.”

“I did.”

“Then you should have said it so I could hear you.”

I thought I had
.

“So what now?” he asked.

“Now, I’m going to catch up to the others.”

He reached out and stopped her as she slipped on her shoes. “That’s great, but I’ve got to go.”

“You’re going to make me walk out to the barn alone after seeing those goons here?”

“Hey, they left.” He grinned, and the moonlight bounced off his teeth.

“What about their boss?”

He rubbed his goatee with four fingers, his thumb pressed under his chin. What was it about men and facial hair? They always had to play with it. “I’ll watch to make sure you get safely inside. But first, you promised me the disk.”

Grudgingly she retrieved it from her purse. “Here. Satisfied?”

“I thank you. My publisher thanks you.”

“Yeah, yeah!”

Rachel reached the barn, only to find it empty. A quick look around assured her that there was not much difference between Mike Johnson’s accommodations for his birds and the Raptor House’s. There was also no sign of either the gyrfalcon or the young peregrines.

Tromping back to the main lodge, Rachel wondered again why Udall was in such a hurry. Did he know something she didn’t know? Like where Miriam was? Maybe that was why he dashed off so quickly after dinner.

She expected to find the others in the bar, but there was no one there except the bartender. A few late stragglers were laughing over their dinner in the dining room, but the birdwatcher brigade appeared to have left.

“They’ve been gone a while,” the bartender said. “Most of them split right after the tour.”

She scooted out to the parking lot in the dark. The moon had set, and the night sky twinkled with dots of light. The wind whistled through the trees; the shadows swayed across the uneven ground. Every creak from the barn, bang of a shutter, and hoot of a night bird caused her to jump.

Her sense of adventure gave way to jitters as Rachel fumbled for her keys. Her car was one of a handful left in the parking area, and the buildings lay dark. It hadn’t taken everyone long to turn out the lights.

Rachel fitted the key in the door, threw her purse on the seat, and, after a cursory search for serial killers, jumped in and threw the lock. The dome light faded to black and she drew a deep breath.

The car fired on the first try, the headlamps lighting automatically. Rachel pulled out of the parking lot. The road seemed bumpier in the dark. She hoped she didn’t have a low tire. Maybe she should get out and check. Instead, she drove more slowly, gaining speed in spite of riding the brake. The car lurched as she started down the incline toward the meadow, and she stamped hard on the brakes. The pedal sank to the floor.

What the…? She let off, and depressed the pedal again. Still no resistance. She pumped the brakes and gripped the wheel, watching the front end of the car eat up the road. The seat belt strap locked tight, bruising her shoulder with each bump and jolt.

Rachel stepped on the emergency brake.

Nothing.

She released it and tried again.

Still nothing.

The car was traveling forty-five miles an hour and picking up speed. To bail out would be suicide. To stay with the car seemed certain death.

She hit a pothole and the car careened toward the clearing, headlamp beams sweeping the grass. She yanked the wheel hard, and pulled back onto the road.

What would happen if she turned off the engine? She twisted the key. The power steering failed.
Damn
! On the steep incline, the car continued to roll, gaining speed. She fought for control and cranked the key. The car engine fired.

That didn’t work, but what would happen if she rammed the car into first? The rental car was an automatic. Would downshifting strip the gears and throw the car into neutral? That would make her go faster. But downshifting might give her some engine braking power. There was only one way to find out.

Rachel gripped the shifter, depressed the button on the handle, and yanked back. The indicator needle jumped from third to second to first.

She was still going too fast, but the engine drag helped prevent her from gaining speed too quickly. She jerked the wheel back and forth, keeping the car on the road. The ruts and potholes slowed her course, and she zigged and zagged her way down the hill.

The road leveled out past the clearing before plunging toward Raptor House Road. If her memory served, the trees crowded closer through that stretch. If she maintained control until then, she could jump, or at the very least use the trees to slow her progress.

Either way, she knew she had to do something before that last stretch. Otherwise, she’d end up wrapped around the entrance sign to Bird Haven, swimming in Black Canyon Creek, or communing with an Elk Park telephone pole.

The meadow clearing whipped by. In the rearview mirror, Black Canyon Creek Ranch loomed on the hill. Ahead of her the road pitched down steeply, then leveled off. She aimed the car for the split in the trees.

The speedometer read fifty-five as she shot into the narrow corridor. Fifty-four, fifty-three. When the needle hit forty-five, Rachel realized she needed another plan. In a hundred-feet the road dropped again, sharply.

You need a plan, Stanhope
.

She’d seen stunt drivers scrape the side of a car against a building to slow themselves down, but scraping against the trees seemed too risky. A slight miscalculation, a jutting branch, and she’d be testing the air bag. It might come to that yet, but she preferred to stall.

Wait! What if she cleared the end of the trees, then, before the road dropped away, made a sweeping turn back up the hill. That way, when she plowed into the forest, she’d be moving slower.

Rachel braced herself, gripped the wheel, and flipped on the brights as she shot out of the tree-lined corridor. The incline drew closer. Closer. Wait. Wait!
Now!

She yanked the wheel hard to the right. The car lurched onto the shoulder of the road. Rocks and brush battered the undercarriage. The ground broke away sharply on her left. She yanked the wheel harder.

Her left front tire hit a rock, and the front of the car bounced in the air. The turning, the momentum, the terrain worked against her. The car started flipping.

Everything slowed.

The front of the car rose in the air, like a breaching whale in slow-motion. The driver’s-side window dropped toward the ground, and the terrain fell away like the first hill on the roller coaster at Coney Island.

The car rolled.