Introduction

 

I once entered a contest where the writer was given nine random story cubes and had to create a story using a minimum of five.

 

The story cubes I was given appear on the cover of this book, but in summary, they were: -

 

1. Thought bubble – the ability to read thoughts
2. Magnet
3. Abacus – shown to represent numbers
4. Key
5. Parachute
6. Aeroplane
7. Spear
8. Tower
9. Monster

The story contains all of the cubes, although not in the same order as they are shown. The historical and religious references are used to help the story and not a judgment on any religion, past or present.

 

*****

 

 

Chapter One

 

“I think I know where the treasure is.”

 

I looked up from the book I was reading and laughed at my little sister, who was standing nearly naked and breathless in the doorway of my bedroom.

 

“Soph, you come up with so many theories, maybe it’s time you left behind the dusty old university world and came out into the real world.”

 

Sophia was a little over ten years younger than me and had spent most of her adult life cloistered in the dusty recesses of various universities around the country, where she studied archaeology like it was the holy scriptures. Ever since she had first seen the movie, she was hooked on becoming a female version of Indiana Jones and would spend hours recreating the scenes and getting me to role-play them with her.

 

After obtaining a first at Oxford in archaeology, she then went on to obtain a distinction in her master's degree in archaeology and historical studies. It was when she started working towards a doctoral degree that she became obsessed with exploring a lost civilisation based in the heart of the Congo jungle. Her thesis won awards and accolades as well as the title of Doctor, so technically she became Dr Sophia Marshall plus a string of letters sometimes. I always got lost as to when to use the letters or when the title, so I simply just stuck to ‘Soph’.

 

At 30, she was truly one of the most brilliant minds in her field, but when she got an obsession, it overwhelmed everything. Recently, she had become obsessed with finding a fabled stockpile of ancient treasure, buried somewhere in the Middle East by the Knights Templar after they retreated from Jerusalem. “A treasure beyond the mind’s comprehension,” she called it, and it was all based on a picture painted nearly a thousand years ago.

 

“Just out of interest Soph, why are you naked?” I laughed.

 

She looked down her body, almost like she hadn’t realised, then said gleefully, “I am not naked, I have panties on.” To call them panties would be a stretch of the truth, as they were little more than a scrap of material connected by strings. With her hands on her hips, she went on, “What does it matter anyway? You are my brother, and it’s not like you haven't seen it before.”

 

She was right, but at the same time, even though she was my sister, the sight of her almost naked flesh was having an effect on me, and I could feel my cock hardening in my combat trousers. She didn't have large breasts, so she hardly needed a bra, but she did have pronounced nipples that were like small pink pencil erasers. It was impossible not to notice that she either shaved completely or at least trimmed very close.

 

“Just put some clothes on, you hussy,” I said, throwing a discarded sweatshirt at her, making sure I laid the book across my lap to hide my growing erection. I could feel myself blush with embarrassment at the thought of getting a hard-on over my own sister like some pervert. Blushing was an embarrassment for a battle-hardened soldier like myself, so to distract me from further temptation, I went downstairs to make a brew while she dressed.

 

“Make me one Teddy,” my sister bellowed down the stairs.

 

“Only if you put some bloody clothes on,” I shouted back as I put the kettle on to boil.

 

I looked around the kitchen, which hadn't changed since I joined up in 2003 as a young, fresh-faced paratrooper. At that time, Sophia was just a young girl who idolised her big brother in his shiny new uniform. When I told her stories of jumping out of planes and floating down on a parachute, she would sit in raptures, her eyes shining brightly. She would tie strings onto a stuffed bear with the corners of one of Dad’s handkerchiefs, and hurl it from the upstairs window of our three-bedroomed semi-detached house. She would then proudly announce that the bear was me, although had I hit the ground at that speed, I wouldn’t be walking away. Much to my embarrassment, she kept referring to me as her teddy bear even though my given name was Edward, and to this day, she is the only one who calls me Teddy.

 

I never told her about the horrors that happened during my four tours of Afghanistan and three tours of Iraq. It was always stories of funny camels drinking Coke from cans, not collecting bits of your mate in a bucket after he had stepped on an IED (Improvised Explosive Device).

 

Once when I was home on leave, they had just released Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, so being her big brother, I took her to the pictures. She clung to my arm like it was a date, and after the film, she babbled like only 13-year-old girls can about how great the movie was. She became indignant when I told her the film sucked, and to prove my point, I went through my extensive DVD collection and found the original Indiana Jones films. Then we sat and binge-watched the original trilogy, but when she found the two Tomb Raider films, she fell in love with Lara Croft and was hooked. I think it was then that her idealistic love of everything ancient began, and her dreams of becoming an explorer started.

 

When my beret changed colour from maroon to sand, and the winged parachute cap badge was replaced with the winged dagger, she didn’t notice, but my parents did. My father simply nodded in approval, whilst my mother continually muttered about being careful. I am not sure my sister, who was 16 at the time, would have known the difference between the Paras and the SAS; all she was interested in was tales about where I had been in the world. She would question me about historical landmarks, asking eagerly if I had seen them. I would laugh and make up a story rather than tell of the death and destruction I had been involved in.

 

I couldn’t tell her much about my tours, so I invented stories about riding camels and jumping out of planes to rescue damsels in distress. In my stories to her, no one died, there was no horror, but my parents knew differently, and thankfully, never asked. She knew I had been to the Middle East, but I was always vague about exactly where in the world I had been. She would prattle on for hours about the ancient mysteries and antiquities of Iraq and Syria, the cradle of civilization as she called it. To me, they were just sand-covered shitholes full of people who wanted to kill me.

 

I thought I had become inured to the pain of death, but when we lost both our parents within a month of each other to COVID in 2021 it hit us both hard. Sophia had not long finished her master’s and had yet to start her doctorate when she suffered the brutality of having first one and then the other of our parents taken away in an ambulance, never to return. At the time I was away, involved in some conflict or another in some hell hole, so she was left to deal with most of it on her own. When I got back, my parents were already buried, and together, we cleared the house of the mementoes they had built up, though some things were too painful to get rid of. We owned the house jointly, and as it was convenient for Soph to travel to university, and I had barracks, we decided to keep things as they were. The weird thing is, neither of us wanted to move into Mum and Dad’s old room, so it became a sterile guest room.

 

At that point, Soph came bounding into the kitchen to interrupt me from my thoughts, “Is that bloody tea made yet?” she yipped as she sipped the strong tea. I could see her looking at me with a look I had come to know over the years. She wanted something and had a devious plan.

 

“What do you want Soph?” I said quietly.

 

“What makes you think I want anything?” she pouted.

 

“Because I know you far too well.”

 

“Wellllll...you know where Mesopotamia is, don’t you...”

 

“Fuck off Soph, that is in the middle of fucking Iraq.”

 

She looked at me with those stupid brown eyes she has, half apologetic, half pleading, but fucking sexy. It was those eyes that were probably the reason I had never married. Sure, I had fucked around all over the world, but when it came to settling down, none of the women I ever met were my little sister Sophia. That was where the problem was, you can’t fancy your own sister, it was wrong. I knew that as soon as she turned those eyes on me, I was doomed and would go along with whatever stupid or dangerous scatterbrained plan she had dreamt up this time.

 

*****

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

As the plane started its approach to Kuwait International Airport, I looked down at the vast sprawling expanse of the airport, which was huge for such a tiny country. Overshadowed a little by its neighbours, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait wanted to prove themselves in the Middle East and establish themselves as a player.

 

As we waited to disembark the aircraft, I whispered to Soph, “Just follow my lead...and don’t panic.”

 

At passport control, the official looked at my passport, then Sophia’s, then back at mine before picking up the phone and barking a few words in Arabic. The next moment, two heavily armed soldiers appeared and motioned for us to follow. I could see the look of concern on Soph’s face; her cloistered academic life had not prepared her for the harsh realities of real life. The soldiers escorted us to a room where a man dressed in a white dishdash (flowing robe) with a matching white ghutra (head scarf) kept in place with an agal (the black cord). His face split into a broad grin as he rose, grasping my hand and kissing me on either cheek. Then, in Arabic, he said, “I knew Allah had smiled upon me when I saw your name; we are truly honoured to have the spear of protection visit us again.”

 

I responded in Arabic, although more haltingly, as it had been a while, “Fahad, you flatter me; all I did was help in achieving the outcome all would have wished.”

 

What I hadn’t told Sophia was that a few years ago, I had been attached to the Kuwait army in a role as an adviser when there had been an attack on one of the minor members of their royal family. I had to break the rules of engagement and become actively involved to stop the attack and neutralise the aggressors. There was no injury to the royal family members, although two of their bodyguards were killed, whereas all of the attackers either died in the firefight or were executed very soon after. However, as a result of becoming involved, I was reprimanded by the British government but lauded as a hero by the Kuwaiti royal family. They bestowed many honours upon me, and one was a golden spear on a chain that I wore around my neck, the so-called spear of protection.

 

Soph simply stared at me as she had followed none of what was said, but hissed out of the corner of her mouth, “I didn’t know you spoke Arabic.”

 

I laughed as Fahad turned to Sophia, “and this must be your charming wife, I am honoured to meet you, Mrs Marshall.”

 

Bless her, Soph didn’t miss a beat as I said, “Sophia, I would like you to meet Major Fahad Al Sabah, a good friend.”

 

“Colonel,” Fahad corrected me, “Allah has been kind to me, and I have been blessed with good fortune.”

 

We had further exchanges in Arabic where Fahad assured me that everything had been arranged as requested before being escorted to a limousine that swept us away to a luxury suite in a 5-star hotel.

 

Sophia had said nothing and simply sat in the chair, looking at the amazing view across Kuwait City. After the maids had unpacked and left us in peace, she spun in the chair and looked at me hard, “Your wife?”

 

“It was the only way I could get them to agree to me taking you across the border into Iraq,” I said helplessly.

 

“Well then, husband,” she laughed as she stood, “order us some room service while I have a bath and then I will explain exactly what we are looking for.”

 

As she stood, she started divesting herself of her clothing until she had on just a camisole top and her G-string panties. I turned away to preserve her modesty, but to my surprise, she said, “Why would a husband not want to look upon his wife?”

 

“Don’t be fucking daft,” I laughed, “you are my sister, not my wife...anyway I would want a wife with more meat on her bones.”

 

The reality was, at that moment, it took every ounce of willpower not to sweep her into my arms and carry her to the large bed, then fuck her brains out.

 

“You smell anyway,” she pouted as she turned, now naked, and went into the large, palatial bathroom with its marble walls and golden taps. I watched her pert ass vanish and suppressed a groan that was trying to escape my lips. To distract myself, I picked up the phone and dialled for room service. In a place like this, you didn’t need a room service menu; they brought you anything you ordered, no matter what it was. As this was likely to be our last decent meal for a few days, I ordered a wide variety of foods.