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Under-cover agent Monica is on Djerba, in Tunisia, to trace down the mastermind behind the recent 4/11 terror attack, when the dead body of a tourist woman washes up and she's torn into a mesh of black magic, romance, and international intrique that are all connected to the Djerba Nights, the most exclusive nightclub on the holiday island.
Alexis Debary's debut work of fiction is based on the 4/11 terrorist blast on Djerba, in 2002. The author studied Islamic Studies and German Literature at the University of Hamburg and has travelled extensively in Arabic speaking countries. She binds first-hand experiences with action and vibrant imagery while playing with the cultural prejudice that began with 9/11.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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Nine Nights Djerba
A Post 9/11 Thriller
In memory of my father, Zoltan de BaryBookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 MunichForeword
There is nothing either good or bad
but thinking makes
William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
NINE NIGHTS
PART ONE: TIME
Chapter 1: At 01:17
It’s 01:15 when the hands of the murderer circle her throat to lock into place. It’s also the moment every atom in her understands that those hands won’t stop until the last drop of life is squeezed out of her. Her time is up. She’s going to die and nothing can save her from her Fate, her Kismet, or her al-qad Wa’l-qada, as the Arabs would say. In three minutes, she will be history.
"Why?", she implores, "Why now? Why here?"
Yet she knows it’s in vain to question the course of destiny. That’s the one thing she’s learned while she’s been on the island. Here, as in all Muslim countries, one believes everything to be preordained to happen exactly how it does. Her eyes are bulging from their sockets as the fingers circle her cervix with renewed strength. They are itching to close in on her. Seemingly driven by a force of their own, they appear to be yearning to interlock and complete their task, strangulate her without empathy, mechanically, like the arms of a clock that met up at midnight. Only that in this case her neck will snap in two when they touch.
"Spare me", she shrieks, looking up to meet the eye of her murderer in the dim. "Don’t let me die so far from home?"
Yet no sound leaves her mouth. Her voice only echoes in the corridors of her mind as her stare freezes on the face of her murderer. She can barely breathe, let alone form a single tone. 85 billion neural cells are being unplugged with every second that she is denied oxygen, and the words stick to her throat.
"Let me live", she whispers voicelessly all the same as her arms drop to her side like withered petals and her eyes fix on her killer’s mask of snaring hatred. For 60 seconds, she tries pleading her cause without uttering a word, but slowly her thoughts are spinning-off to seep out through the ends of her hair and every pore in her body. Fight as she will, at 01:16 a.m., her eyelids flutter shut and the world around her loses saturation and substance. In twice thirty seconds, her neck will crack like plywood beneath the force those fingers are exerting on her windpipe without remorse.
As her last shudder snakes up her spine, darkness wraps itself around her and the arms of the clock slip to 01:17 a.m. She is already on the verge to another realm when her last breath mingles with the air her killer exhales and suddenly the passion and pain propelling those hands to kill her becomes tangible to her. Then an abyss opens up below her heels and she flips over, falling to the incessant beat of three words repeating themselves over and over again in her mind.
"Dust to dust", they chant.
