QISMAH

Qismah won the American Authors Association "Reader''s Choice" Award for 2004!

An Islamic Bedouin prince... a Catholic British-American... One shackled to the past, the other struggling for a future.

From a peaceful bedroom community nestled beneath the snow-capped mountains in Montana, to the dissident Saharan badlands deep within tribal territory, comes a provocative drama of conflicting love, lust, honor and betrayal that unravels the unique, collision-bound destinies of two extraordinary young men and the adventurous women who dare to love them.

Intrigue, tragedy and obsessive desires of the flesh and heart provide the powder for this explosive, politically flavored love story that slams together the Moroccan Crown, the United States CIA, Algerian-based Polisario and centuries-old archenemies: the Kahan Abdah and the Beni Sair, the two largest and most feared desert tribes in North Africa.

As colorful and intricate as an exotic Moroccan carpet... Delicious characters impossible to forget...

C. F. Frank’s first full-length novel, Qismah, is the product of “a secret obsession” and months of research in Morocco, Tunisia, Bahrain and Kenya.

A seasoned veteran of the entertainment industry (more than thirty-five years performing under the name of Conne Castle),  Mrs. Frank is an avid reader and an insatiable world traveler. Today she lives in Las Vegas, Nevada with her husband and a shamefully spoiled cat.

Moussa and Kaplah shaped their blankets into mounds which, in the glow of firelight, resembled reposing bodies. Then, crawling away from the camp in the opposite direction from Paul and Mulai, they duplicated the brothers’ tactic, meeting them at the rear of their attackers. The remaining Kahan stayed put, their rifles concealed in their bedrolls.

Two Tuaregs heard the dull thwup and simultaneously pivoted, catching a glimpse of the steel star, whose vicious, pointed spokes lay deeply embedded in the base of their comrade’s skull. Neither man had a second to utter a sound, as each one crumpled where he stood, throat slit ear to ear. Paul wiped the blade of his mouzeri on the leg of his pants.

Moussa did the same, and the four men noiselessly closed the gap between themselves and their would-be assailants.

Kaplah’s blade soon bit into a fourth man’s jugular, and when the resulting juicy gurgle broke the silence, the five Tuaregs on the ridge made the fatal mistake of clambering to their feet. Mulai’s command to fire sent his pseudo-sleepers into action, and four of the intruders fell in the rash of rifle blasts, while a fifth ran headlong into Paul in an attempt to flee. The rest were met and downed on the spot by angry Kahan warriors. Of the thirteen, two survived: the poor chump who had crashed into Paul’s bulky chest, knocking himself out, and a skinny, wool-headed imp in critical need of a bath.

“Hoo-waa!” Paul fanned the air when Moussa dropped the lean bundle in the sand beside the other unconscious figure. “Bloody overripe, neh? Methinks these blokes have been misbehaving with the ma-eez.”

“Hah! In the backside of a she-goat is where the seed of a stinking Tuareg belongs,” Kaplah said. The statement was met with unanimous agreement.

Mulai, walking among the fallen men, knelt beside the two who were spraddled at their fireside. He tore the dyed blue kaffiyeh from the head of one. “Our attackers are not Tuaregs,” he said. “We have captured Taisir ibn Akbar al Sair.”

Paul gawked at him. “Doufan’s cub? You positive, bro?”

“Aiwa.”

“That’s a helluva note! What now?”