Found in Thyme

By Taha Lilas

A man’s dying wish unearths a tumultuous past and brings
together two lost souls searching for the missing pieces
that will make them whole again…each other.
When a horrific terrorist attack rocks the airport Sami Amara
happens to be transiting through, it triggers a chain reaction of events
which threatens to jeopardize everything he holds dear, including his
relationship with his fiancée, Petra.
From international diplomatic strife to local scandal, Sami finds
himself embroiled in a thrilling conspiracy that ripplesfurther into the
lives of his American-Palestinian family and everyone around him.
It’s a race against the powerful political elite, and this time,
everything’s at stake.
Found in Thyme concludes the whirlwind journey of Lost in Thyme.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hamad Bin Khalifa University Press
• Release date: May 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9789927161971

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Sami Amara never imagined he would welcome the stench of a neglected public restroom. He dashed into the farthest stall, closed the flimsy door and pushed the teenage girl into the corner by a dingy toilet.

Roiling gunfire outside rivaled bursts of deafening shrieks and anguished screams. If one of the shooters assaulting the mall area of Istanbul Airport continued to spray bullets, the teen at least had the protection of the chipped commode.

Sami had swept the stunned girl standing in his path the instant he regained balance. An explosion ripped through the café they were about to enter and spared them. Aiming for the safety of the restroom, Sami hauled the girl away from the mutilated bodies before her.

Thin, lanky and violently shaking, the teen clung to Sami’s bloody shirt. He pried her hands off. Where did the blood come from? Was it hers, or his?

Someone burst through the main restroom doors.

Sami pressed his index finger to the girl’s lips. He eased onto the toilet and curled his basketball frame into a fetal position. Sharp pain pierced his left side. He clenched his lips and stifled a moan. If it were people taking refuge, he would have heard crying, running, shuffling. But there was stillness, followed by deliberate footsteps.

Sami held his breath. They were trapped. Could he pounce on the shooter, disarm him before he fired his weapon? Impossible. This was not a movie. He possessed no lightning speed or martial arts skills. The odds in his favor could rise if the shooter was miraculously distracted. What if he waited until the gunman approached the stall? He could slam him with the barely standing door and throw him off balance for precious seconds. Would it be time enough to grab the teen, shield her with his body and escape? Absolutely not. He would be riddled with bullets before they reached the exit.

What would happen to his twin girls at home?

They would be orphaned. Again.

No way in hell could he let that happen. He had to survive. He needed a weapon. Nothing on him but his cell phone, passport, and his father’s Parker fountain pen. The solid gold nib could inflict pain. Or could it? Panic screeched in his ears, a frantic entity clawing at his lungs. What to do? What to do?

Heavy black boots showed below the stall’s dangling door. Sami met the teen’s eyes. Stay calm. Please stay calm. The youth clamped both hands over her mouth. Sami poised, gripping his pen as he would a dagger. This was foolish, cartoonish even, but he was desperate.

The main restroom door creaked open. A woman said something in Turkish, unmistakable panic in her voice.

Sami snapped up his head. A mother ushering her family to safety? Run out lady, Sami wanted to yell. The teen grabbed his ankle. He pressed his fist between his teeth.

The black boots turned toward the new arrivals. Sami leapt forward, crashed against the stall’s door, breaking its remaining hinge and landing it atop the shooter. Pinned to the floor, arms trapped by the door under Sami’s full weight, the gunman bellowed a menacing cry and fought to throw Sami off.

Sami lashed out with his pen. Gunshots thundered by his head, shattered mirrors and reverberated around the tiles. Did any bullets hit the teen? The family? He couldn’t see and he couldn’t stop. His beautiful little girls needed him in Houston. Petra waited in Kuwait to become his bride.

He . . . must . . . stay . . . alive.

He ripped the pen into the shooter’s masked face with all the power he could muster, aiming for his eyes, one furious blow after another, over and over and over.

The gunman howled and wailed, a crazed animal. Sami rammed and twisted the pen into the man’s throat to silence him. Blood spattered Sami’s face, pooled under the shooter’s head and shoulders.

Where was the weapon? Was the bastard still moving?

A hand touched his back. His fist paused mid-air. He looked up. The teenager stood trembling before him, her jeans soiled. A crying mother huddled in a corner, shielding two children with her body.

Sami wiped blood and sweat from his face with his sleeve, rose and balanced on the door. He jumped in place several times. More blood seeped from the mangled gunman’s wounds. He was no longer a danger, but could he have comrades lurking outside?

Sami flipped up his thumbs. Okay? he asked in a hushed voice.

The teenager nodded. The woman unfurled her body and checked her terrified children.

Shhhh, he beseeched them to stop crying.

They huddled around their mother, peering at him with wide eyes. The mother patted their backs, tucked frazzled hair strands under her colorful headscarf.

He leapt to the floor, flipped the door off and hard kicked the lifeless body. Neither a twitch nor a moan emanated. He carried a tall metal trash bin to the entrance door and jammed it under the handle. Eyeing the assault rifle by one of the toilets, he picked it up, checked the gunman’s body for extra ammo, found two full clips and tucked them under his belt. He’d gone deer hunting in Texas once, fired a rifle—never a semi-automatic, but he would defend this spot no matter what. Pointing the muzzle to the floor, he studied the AK-47, located its magazine release lever and engaged it a couple of times, unloading and reloading the clip. He could do this. He had no choice.

Emulating soldiers in movies, he slung the weapon across his shoulder to rest it on his back. He grabbed his kill by the ankles, dragged it inside one of the stalls and closed the door. No telling if the children watched him gouge out the shooter’s eyes. They didn’t need to stare at the grisly carnage.

What was the shooter doing in this restroom? It was as if he followed them. Or was he looking for someone in particular?

Pain shot through Sami’s ribs as the adrenaline dissipated. He gripped his left side. Warm blood oozed, mixed with the congealing fluid on his hand. Shrapnel from the explosion? Or a bullet?

The mother approached, clutching clean diapers. She pointed and motioned for him to lift his arm. He obliged but failed to suppress a moan. She compressed diapers over his wound and used her scarf around his midsection to secure them in place. Her auburn hair shimmered under the florescent lights, same reddish-brown hue as Petra’s.

He swayed, shot his right hand to the wall. He smelled baby powder. Innocence and horror mingled over his skin. What in God's name just happened?

He killed a mass murderer with his father’s pen.

He slid to the floor, swung the weapon to his lap. A black shroud floated down from the restroom corners to engulf him. He fought to keep his eyes focused. He couldn’t lose consciousness. Not now. Not yet.

CHAPTER TWO

Sami swept his tongue over his dry lips.

Cupping her hands, the mother carried water from a sink, helped wet his throat and blotted his forehead.

"Teshekkur," he croaked his thanks using the only Turkish word he knew.

She smiled and cradled her youngest boy, a toddler clutching the ends of her long jacket. She answered a question from his brother, a nine or ten-year-old. They shuffled toward the teenager standing in a corner, a dazed look on her face. The mother took off her jacket and tied it around the girl’s waist, concealing the stain on her jeans, giving her a measure of dignity.

Sami rested his head against the wall. Smart woman, that mother. She engaged the shocked teen in hushed conversation, their Turkish soft sounding with an abundance of the U vowel at the end of most words.

He gazed around the small restroom. Hanna Vanyos’s voice echoed in his head.

Staying alive? That’s a heightened form of resistance.

Sami rubbed his right hand over his face and neck. Mere survival was not sufficient at the moment. He needed to act, get these people to safety.

Something pricked the base of his wrist. He looked down. His father’s pen poked its bloody tip out of his shirt pocket. When did he retrieve the makeshift weapon from the gunman’s body? A coarse chuckle scraped his throat. What would his peace-loving, non-violent-means-of-resistance-advocating father think of that?

Sami pulled out his cellphone and checked it. Damn it! Red bars flickered on the battery. The long conference call with his team of engineers in Pamukkaleh drained its power. He coughed to get the other's attention and waved his phone in the air until the mother shook her head. The teen pulled out a shattered mini iPod from her back pocket. He looked at the nine-year-old. The boy flipped open his empty hands and shrugged. This couldn’t be happening. Hell, in Houston, even the toddler would hand him a cellphone.

Sami beckoned the mother to come closer and gestured, Call help, please. He pointed at the low battery and snapped his fingers. Police, yes?

She nodded, dialed 112 instead of 911 and stammered through a brief conversation. She handed Sami the phone.

"I am commandur Mehmet Siyet, a man said in heavy accent. Tell me your name."

Sami Amara . . . trapped in a public restroom. The woman you’ve spoken to, two of her children and one teenage girl.

"Whut buthroom? Tell me where?"

Sami raked his brain to remember the name of the adjacent blown-up café. No use. Before all hell broke loose, he recalled passing a big sign with an exclamation mark. The small restroom behind the information counter, he said.

"Stay inside. Askar. . . uh soldurs are close. Womun say you kill terrorist?"

There are more. I hear sporadic gunshots outside.

"We know. You huv weapun?"

I took the shooter’s gun. An AK-47.

Can you shoot, Sami Amara?

Occasional recreational hunting, sir. Not trained to use a semi-automatic gun. But I will if I have to.

"Everyone go end of buthroom. You point weapun at door. Shoot anyone entur. When askar arrive, first they say your name to tell for safety. Then they say my name, Mehmet Siyet, the commander spoke in a hurry. You huv that?"

Got it. My name then your name, Meh-met Si-yet. If I don’t hear that, fire away.

"Don’t shoot askar. They speak English to put down your weapun."

Not my weapon, Sami clarified.

"You understund, Sami Amara?"

Yes, sir.

Good luck.

Sami stared at the dying phone for a second. The commander’s ending with good wishes rang hollow and failed to reassure. Spraying bullets in the direction of the restroom entry was not a guarantee he would thwart another gunman intent on murder. And anti-terrorism operatives on high alert combating attackers would act before asking any questions. This was not a good plan. He reined in his frustration. No need to further upset the mother and children. He should offer a scant measure of hope, show he was in control of the situation. But, short of a miracle, they were all doomed.

He sucked his upper lip and slowly released it. Better not waste any remaining battery juice on a call home. It was past midnight in Houston. His mother would be fast asleep and wouldn’t have caught any news. No need to launch her on a worried frenzy. Petra in Kuwait, however, would have heard about the airport attack. She would know what to do if he didn’t make it out of here. She would take care of his girls, his mother.

He dialed Petra’s number, cupped his hand over the phone to muffle bursts of gunfire.

Petra, can you hear me?

Sami, thank God, you’re okay! Petra squealed. Where are you?

I’m—

The call dropped with signal loss. He raised the phone desperately above his head. A single bar flickered for the service. He tried again. The call went through, then failed. The screen turned black and displayed an empty battery. A short text would go through. He quickly typed, I’M FINE. DON’T WORRY. TAKE CARE OF MY GIRLS.

Before he could send, the phone died.

Piece of junk! He swore and shoved the useless gadget in his pocket.

Loud shouts echoed through speakers. Sami sought the others. Police?

The boy spoke in a high-pitched tone, "Askar say you are in circle."

Sami held out his right hand and urged the boy to help him to his feet. Turkish army exerting control over the airport was a good sign. Wound stabbing at him with each step, he ushered everyone to the back of the restroom and cramped them inside the last stall for protection.

I come with you. The boy tried to leave. His mother frantically held him back.

Stay here, Sami said and backed away.

The boy bolted from his mother’s grip. I help. He slammed a fist to his chest. I am strong.

Help me protect your mama. Sami squeezed the determined boy’s shoulder and pointed at the squirming toddler. Keep your little brother quiet. Can you do that?

The boy nodded, marched back to wrap his arms around his mother and brother.

Weapon in hand, Sami headed to the front of the restroom, planted his feet apart and faced the door.

Minutes passed. The diapers bandaging his wound leaked, blood seeped down his leg to spatter his loafers. Tense with dread, he sagged against the wall for support. Running footsteps approached the door. He tried to count how many. Impossible.

A clattering sound echoed in the tiled room. He looked around, then realized his hands shook, clanging the metal fasteners of the semi-automatic’s sling against the clips tucked in his belt. He raised his arms to stop the rattle, placed his finger on the trigger and blew-out a steadying breath.

A crescendo of shooting erupted outside flared faster and louder. Sami strained to hear his name or the commander’s name. Nothing but the confusing raucous of chaos.

Something slammed against the door and dislodged the trash bin. Soiled paper and crushed water bottles scattered everywhere.

Was it time to say goodbye to his sweet girls, his ever-lost mother? Bid farewell to life, to brave Petra, and to all the love he was so ready to give?

The restroom lights flickered. The door slammed open.

Sami squeezed the trigger. The weapon jolted his shoulder. Waves of liquid fire burned his left side. Blinded and deafened by the amalgam of bright flashes and roaring clamor, he kept shooting until the gun expelled its last bullet. In the eternity of seconds it took to replace the empty clip, he glimpsed a masked man crumpled in a black and crimson heap on the floor.

Sami aimed at the wide-open entrance. This was it. Time to join his kind brother and misunderstood father on the other side. Time to square off with the past.

He yanked the bolt to chamber a round.

Sami Amara! a blaring voice boomed. We are Turkish Armed Forces. Put down your weapon. Airport is under control.

Sami slid to the floor. A long breath scorched his lungs. He set aside the AK-47 and kicked it away. Men surrounded him within seconds, prodding, yelling.

Where’s commander Seyit? Sami asked. He knew he was saying the words, but he couldn’t hear his voice.

A man in green army fatigues shoved him down, pressed a knee to his neck and ground his face to the tiles.

Wait, Sami choked, I’m not . . . one of . . . them.

The soldier wrenched Sami’s arms back and handcuffed him.

Sami screamed in agony. About to lose the battle to stay conscious, he cried out, Take me to commander Mehmet Siyet!

CHAPTER THREE

Petra opened the car door with shaking hands. She barely made it through the endless night since she last heard his voice. Slipping into the backseat, she tugged the seatbelt with an angry realization that she stepped into her mother’s shoes. Twenty-six years ago, her mother walked into the American embassy in Kuwait and reported her husband had gone missing in Beirut. Petra had just filed the same report about Sami, only a fiancé, as the ambassador’s attaché found it fit to clarify. How did her mother hold it together? Did she have by her side trusted friends like Khalid and Mouzah to keep her together?

Frustrated, helpless, choking with fear, she pulled hard on her ponytail to stop from screaming out her lungs. She’d already done that last night at Mouzah’s place. It was time to get past the shock and do something useful.

I need to change my reservation, she said. Can we stop at Lufthansa?

Mouzah turned from the passenger seat. You should stay here . . . at least until we hear from the embassy.

Sami’s girls, Mouzah. I have to be with the twins. And Sawsan shouldn’t be alone when she learns her son is missing. Petra shook her head. They need me.

Wait until they release the names of all vic—

I’ll book you a ticket on Qatar Airways. Khalid cut his wife off and floored the car onto the main road. They fly directly into Houston through a short layover in Doha. Better than wasting hours in Frankfurt.

That’s a good idea. Mouzah settled back in her seat. Avoid European airports. Who knows which one will be hit next?

Khalid threw his wife a scolding glance. "Siktai, willi yerham waldaich."

"Shino? Why do you want me to be quiet? Mouzah flipped out her palms. Petra should not risk flying through Europe. You know I’m right."

Whichever flight takes me to Houston sooner, Petra said. Tension rose between the couple. They had stayed up all night, trying to keep her calm, fishing the internet for information about Sami. Fatigue sharpened Mouzah’s knifelike tongue.

Khalid is asking mercy for my parents. Mouzah slapped her lap. As if they didn’t teach me good.

Well . . . teach you well, Petra corrected, attempting to divert Mouzah from escalating the situation.

"Weeh! Proper grammar is not important now. Mouzah turned to face Petra again. If you have to leave, let Elias stay here."

Can’t do that.

He will have fun with the boys. Too much travel is not good for his health. We will take care of him, don’t worry.

Of course, you will. But I need my son with me.

Elias just returned to school, Petra. Let him finish the term. We will bring him to America during spring break. Mouzah tapped Khalid’s shoulder. "We promised the boys a trip to Disney World. Moo chithee?"

Disney World is in Florida, not Texas, Khalid quipped.

I know that, Mouzah shot back. The boys will learn how cowboys live . . . use those ropes on cows and . . . and to ride bulls.

Not everyone in Texas is a cowboy, Khalid raised his voice and rammed the horn to warn a truck driver swerving out of his lane.

Well, some are, right? Mouzah winked at Petra. It will be easy to find cowboys. We should buy those pointy boots and huge, silver belt buckles for the boys. I want them to blend in.

It’s like saying most Kuwaitis live in mansions with oil rigs in their backyards, Khalid shook his head. How many times do we go over this nonsense?

Petra settled in her seat and listened to the banter. Numbness descended, muffling their voices. In a strange, aggravating way, Mouzah was deflecting her from thinking about the bleak reality.

Trapped, unable to block the couple’s irrelevant chatter, Petra closed her eyes. Where was her Sami? What happened to him?

He was not dead, of that she was sure. Turkish authorities would have notified the American embassy if that were the case. His last phone call came after the bomb went off, so he survived the blast. Why didn’t he call again, let her know he was all right?

The ambassador said his staff would search Istanbul hospitals in case he was injured. How long would it take to find him? A day? Two? Could she function until then? Was there a manual on how to handle this torment?

She had endured the agony of grief when her young, vibrant, seemingly healthy husband died, leaving her to raise sick Elias alone. This was different. She was not the naive, young wife who had a sliver of hope