Ancient Egypt:
A scurrying sound echoed in the dark cell. Out from a hole in the juncture between wall and floor came a rat.
Hunger drove it to sneak around the small room.
The only thing of note was a heap huddled in the corner.
Sensing a meal, the rat scurried over.
To its delight, underneath a curtain of moldy gray fabric was flesh. The rat took an exploratory sniff of the scant form.
And then something closed on its backside.
Squeaking in surprise, the rat tried to twist out of the grip, and would have succeeded if not for another something grabbing its head.
Ten whacks against the floor later, and the rat was dead, its skin split here and there from the force of the impacts.
Nahanit sat back, chomping down happily, tolerating the aches that had sprung up from the sudden exertion.
When she had first been thrown in the cell, the jailers had brought by one meal a day and had also made sure to give her new clothes and let her wash up once a week.
But after a while, the meals had stopped, along with the other accommodations.
Nahanit had quickly realized that she had been forgotten, consigned to rot in the cell.
At the time she had bitterly blamed Enkartep, whose newfound power had turned her into a decrepit wretch.
But now, after however much time in such squalid isolation, her only thought was of staying sane.
Her jaw ached as she tore into the greasy meat of the rat.
After a while without food, she had realized that starvation would not claim her, likely due to the curse that Enkartep had placed upon her. However, while she would not die, the hunger pangs were no less relentless.
The first rats she had seen, in the early days of her imprisonment, had made her shrink away in disgust.
Once the hunger began to grip her so desperately, their scurrying only made her chase them, scrabbling along on aching hands and wobbly knees. The critters were always too quick for her to corner, and too small for her weak eyes to spot accurately in the shadows.
Eventually, Nahanit had developed a simple strategy.
The rats, like her, were hungry.
She stayed still one day, and sure enough, one of the rats came over to investigate.
Although that attempt had been fruitless, on the fourth attempt she managed to snag one, beating it to death against the floor.
Just the act of eating something had brought her back from the brink of insanity.
Her strategy would have worked more often were she not so slow and weak, but here and there it did, the occasional meal easing the pangs in her belly.
Nahanit had no clue as to how much time had passed since her incarceration.
At first, it had been easy enough to keep track, given the daily meals and weekly hygienic allowances.
But by now it could have been days or months or years.
Scuffling footsteps sounded then from outside her door.
She sat upright, curious, not having heard anyone approaching her cell in a long time. Hers was the last in a long row, deep down in the bowels of some temple.
The door creaked open, slowly but surely, as old and decrepit as she was.
Someone strode into the room, their imposing profile stark against the light of the corridor.
"Get up."
She gazed up, her eyes trying to make out their face, to see if she recognized them.
Grunting in annoyance, the figure reached down to haul her to her feet.
The roughness made her cry out in pain, aches erupting all over her body, her spasming hand dropping the rat. Had it not been for the strong grip on her arm, she would have fallen back down.
The figure dragged her from the cell.
Present day, in Marrakesh:
The jeep trundled into the compound.
In the backseat sat Rachel and Maria.
Ahead of them, in the middle of the main plaza, stood two figures, one in combat fatigues, the other in a rumpled suit.
Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel noticed Maria wince, her old body bothered by even the tiniest bumps the jeep went over.
"Stop here," the imperious woman told the driver.
Rachel slipped out, and hustled around to the other side, opening the door.
The first time she had done this, she had made the mistake of holding out her hand for Maria to take.
The older woman had leveled a rancorous gaze at her.
"Put your hand away," she had snapped.
Rachel had thus learned her lesson.
Slowly and laboriously, Maria stepped out from the jeep, and walked over to the two men.
"Greetings, ma'am," Colonel Dario Alba said smoothly.
"So good to see you," chirped Minister Gunter Feld.
"Why are you two still here?" Maria asked acidly.
Rachel stood expectantly next to her boss, watching as the two men adopted confused looks.
The colonel recovered first.
"We wanted to see what you needed from us."
"Follow the plan," came the terse answer.
"We also wanted to see why you came here," the minister added.
"What does that matter? The operation has been moved to Valencia, yes? Those were my orders."
The colonel nodded.
"And the security system is keyed to full force?"
The colonel nodded again.
"Then you two go to Valencia."
"What will you do?"
"I shall wait here."
"This is a dangerous place to be. Our enemy will get the location of this place from Samir."
Maria nodded impatiently.
"Yes, I know."
The colonel opened his mouth, but after a wrathful glare from Maria, did not say anything more.
"Should we leave behind anyone to help you?" the minister asked.
"No," she told him, "I shall be the only one here."
"Very well then. Colonel Alba and I will take everyone else to Valencia."
"Take Rachel with you as well."
Rachel did her best to resist letting out a sigh of relief.
Valencia will be much safer.
"Of course," the minister said.
"Rachel," Maria said then, turning to her, "thank you for your service these past few years."
"Uh...you're welcome. I learned a lot."
"Goodbye, Rachel."
