Page 72 of The Presidents Shadow

Tapper hands me the paper and I unfold it. A short handwritten message, in pencil.

SOUKALBAHAR.ASAP. STORE OF CARPETS.

I pass the note around to the others.

I consult my handheld device. In fact, we all do. The location of Souk Al Bahar is a short distance across the nearby river. Our devices will guide us there.

“Do you think…?” Margo asks. Then she adds, “I’m afraid to even say her name.”

On this day of awful luck, I understand Margo’s superstition and fear.

I tell the others that they should stay at the restaurant while Margo and I follow the directive to visit the carpet vendor.

I try to find words of hope and help.

“Restore your strength. Conquer your thirst. Monitor us on your devices. Join us if you sense trouble.”

Then Margo and I are on our way.

CHAPTER 94

THE BIG RED sign on the carpet store gets to the point quickly.

The name translates toVERYGOODRUGS. Okay. And why not?

Margo and I enter through thick glass doors into one huge room where people are wandering quietly among stacks of beautiful, colorful rugs. We are inside for only a few moments when a young man approaches and greets us. The young man is dressed in white pants and a white linen shirt. He cannot be much older than twenty-five, and he is remarkably handsome, with dark hair and sharp features.

“My name is Abdul Aziz, and I shall be of assistance to you,” he says. “Your future and your joy will be in my hands, and I will transfer that joy to you.”

Huh?

What should Margo and I do next? Why didn’t Maddy—or whoever it was who wrote the message—give us a few more details?

Margo and I are not frightened. We’re simply confused. Does Abdul really want to sell us a carpet? Or is there more to him than that?

We follow Abdul Aziz to the center of the huge store. He pauses beside a two-foot-tall pile of rugs. All the rugs are very large, living-room-size large. Our salesman bends down and begins folding the rugs back to reveal that most of them have interesting floral geometric designs. In the case of each and every rug, the artful designs are set against a bright, silky red background.

“Tell me when you see something you like,” he says, as he energetically flips more and more rugs. We say nothing. He begins flipping the rugs faster. But Margo and I only stand there, not knowing what to do. Except we know we’re not buying a rug.

“Fine. Fine,” he says. He sounds disappointed, almost embarrassed, as he continues to speak. “That is fine and good. I understand. You do not like the selection.”

“No, that’s not it,” I say.

“You must come now with me,” he says, and he begins to walk toward the rear of this big showroom. My instinct is to follow him, but it also tells me to be careful.

“I shall show you the room where—” he begins.

Margo now interrupts.

“No, thank you,” she says, clearly having come to the conclusion that Abdul really is just a rug salesman.

But Abdul Aziz’s only reaction is to keep talking.

“Yes. I shall now show you the room where we keep ourmost treasured objects, our most exquisite pieces,” he says. He keeps walking. We nervously follow.

Within seconds, the three of us are standing in front of a large gray steel door with a barcode lock. Abdul Aziz punches in the code, then pushes the now-unlocked door open and speaks dramatically.

“Behold the treasures for which you are searching!”

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