Page 45 of Dalla's Royal Guards

His first visit to New York as it is now known had been out of curiosity to see how it had changed. He came with the pilgrims and lived with them for almost a year. Later, he traveled with the Indigenous tribes for a time before returning to Europe. Hemoved here during the Revolutionary War to help the colonists fight for their freedom.

He’d fought beside some of history’s most iconic figures, regardless of the color of his skin. He had been influential in the foundation of more than one developing country.

The computer screen in front of him flickered, drawing his attention, which had wandered, and an image appeared. He frowned and sat forward, studying the woman’s face on the screen in silence. He knew her. She was like him—and yet different. Their paths had only crossed twice in history, but both times had left an indelible impression on him.

“I thought you might be interested. She matches your search.”

He swiveled in his chair when a delicate voice echoed behind him. He lifted an eyebrow at the woman casually inspecting a tenth-century sword he had fashioned. When she replaced the sword with a look of distaste, his lips curved with amusement.

The unusual woman had become an unlikely ally in recent months. She was a vision, with her beautiful mane of red hair, hourglass figure, and stunning green eyes that glowed—literally.

She was always impeccably dressed—and to his amusement, era-accurate. Today, she was dressed in a 1920s Flapper outfit complete with sparkling, beaded fringes that swirled around her knee-length black sequined dress when she moved, a black silk turban with peacock feathers, and matching Mary Jane heels.

“Iaminterested. I appreciate your assistance,” he responded.

“You probably would have received an alert—eventually. I just moved things along a little faster. I know you’ve been followingwhat is going on in Kashir, especially because of its proximity to Simdan and Jawahir.”

“Yes, I’ve been following it,” he murmured, turning back to stare at the screen.

“I was searching the archives of photos from World War I, and I found this.”

He stared at a grainy, black-and-white photo from some obscure village in Eastern Europe. He remembered the village, and the photo, well, because he wasn’t the only one in it. So was the woman on the split screen.

“Imagine my surprise when the facial recognition came back a match.”

“Where is she?” he asked, his voice almost inaudible.

“Simdan at the moment.”

RITA brought him up to speed on the events since Dalla’s appearance in this time. He was just interrupting her to say, “I know who Kramer is,” when she suddenly stiffened and said, “Oh, dear.”

“What is it?”

“I just did a sweep of O’Toole’s little IT weasel. They are on to Dalla.”

“Erase the information—all of it,” he ordered.

“Done. I’ll keep an eye on things and keep you posted.”

“Thank you… and RITA.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And RITA—make sure any images from the past are wiped.”

“Already done. I’ve archived them where only you can reach them.”

Harlem returned his attention to the screen and reached for his cell phone.

“I need the jet ready to go in two hours with a flight plan to Simdan.”

Thirteen

Nasser felt as if his bones had melted. He was surprised that he could build a fire, much less arrange the stones so they could use them for seats. A glance at Musad told him that his brother was probably feeling the same. He reached up and tried to smooth his hair down.

“Yours looks just as bad,” Musad said.

“Do you think she is alright?”