Scheme

by Jennifer Sommersby

  “Don’t look. It’s better to not think about it,” Henry says, squeezing my knee.

  I turn to look out the rounded-edge windows. It feels like we’re barely flying high enough to avoid rooftops. The houses under us look suburban, though not much greenery. We pass over a spiral-eight shape—a freeway on-ramp system, busy with bouncing headlights despite the crazy early hour—and then the city slowly fades as the brown expanse of rural space takes over, broken up now and again by developed blocks of housing or other bigger buildings.

  Once we’re out of the city, James takes us a little higher. Because it’s still dark, it’s tough to see much of the ground below, other than the dark snakes of paved roads decorated with slow-moving headlights and color variations in the patchwork landscape. Some of the lighter areas look like they’ve been recently scraped with a giant rake; the darker, greener areas lush with vegetation are obviously closer to the water source that coils and twists south underneath us.

  We climb higher yet again, and James, in our ears, explains we’re over Baghdad so everyone should hold their breath.

  I don’t know if he’s kidding.

  “Less than thirty minutes to landing,” he says, his tone a bit more serious.

  The backpack Xavier threw at the security officer—it had a uniform in it. In the time I’ve been staring out the window, the officer has changed from the black combat gear we’re all wearing into the blue camo of the Iraqi police service, complete with the red, white, and black flag of Iraq patch sewn above the left chest pocket, a nametag in Arabic over the right.

  Clever. And also dangerous. But at least we’ll look like we belong there.

  I bend over, messing with my boot. “The knife is rubbing just above my ankle bone.”

  “Mine as well. Not used to jogging with a weapon shoved in my shoe,” Henry says. “Pity, that. I feel like a superhero.”

  “I’m clueless with a knife, unless it’s to carve a stick for s’mores.”

  Henry smiles. “Lucian went through a phase when he wanted me to be able to defend myself. He told me that children of wealthy parents were often targets for kidnapping plots. Scared me to death. Probably why I never rebelled very hard. I didn’t want to end up tied to a chair in someone’s basement.”

  “Except for sneaking out and providing expensive wine for all your rich friends’ parties, you mean,” I say, waggling an eyebrow.

  Xavier looks up at us from building his rifle, his smirk almost eerie given the greenish light inside the helicopter’s gut. “You do realize we can hear everything you’re saying?” He taps the tactical headset covering his ear.

  “I was just about to profess my undying love and tell Henry I can’t wait to carry his many babies, so this is just so much better you can all hear me,” I say back to him. Andrew and the other guys chuckle and look at Xavier.

  “Smart-ass.” He nods at his security brothers. “Kids these days. We should eat them while their bones are still soft.”

  Xavier finishes his task and then stands and gives Henry and me bulletproof vests and earpieces so we can hear what’s going on once we’re outside.

  “Every precaution,” he says, and then climbs back into his seat. He turns to Sevda next to him and taps his ear. She removes her headset, and he whispers close to her head. Whatever he’s said to her, none of us can hear.

  Henry sees me watching them and squeezes my hand. “We’re going to be okay.”

  I nod and push my chin up so no one sees the sudden panicked tears.

  Henry kisses the back of my hand, and then we help each other into our vests, making double sure everything is Velcroed correctly. The thirty minutes evaporates, and James is in our ear again, warning us we’re a minute out. Xavier, Montague, and the security guys, earphones in and mic collars in place, are poised on the edge of their seats. Xavier will be going without a mic, which seems dangerous, but they said they didn’t want any crackles or feedback to give away his position. Nutesh emerges from the front of the aircraft, his Kevlar vest strapped around his torso. He pats his own pack and winks at Henry and me before pulling it on.

  The third text.

  We have all three AVRAKEDAVRA books with us now, in one unsecured place. This hadn’t even dawned on me at Şivan’s.

  Take the treasure . . . Follow the river to where the bones of kings lie.

  I’m here, Mom. I have the treasure. If you’re out there watching over this, please help us today.

  The two front guards will wear night-vision headsets to be sure we don’t run off course on our way to the river—the sun isn’t due to rise until 0645, and we’re just shy of 0540 right now. Right on schedule.

  “When we touch down, Xavier is running ahead to get in position. You two are out and running straight south. Follow me,” Montague advises. “One of you on each side. Got it?”

  Henry and I nod and pull our headsets off, stuffing the earpieces into place. Our fingers interlaced, I can already feel my bare palms warming against the fabric of his gloves.

  “Thank you for choosing the Lady Tigris for your expeditionary needs. We look forward to a full champagne brunch service as soon as you finish kicking some tyrannical ass,” James teases.

  Xavier turns to me. “I’ve got your back. Always.”

  I nod and mouth a thank-you.

  As we descend vertically, the door latch is thrown. Xavier holds up a countdown hand again as James lowers us all the way onto the ground, the helicopter barely bouncing with touchdown.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  Run.

  43

  AS PLANNED, XAVIER IS OFF AND RUNNING TO HIS PREDETERMINED PERCH where he and his rifle can watch over us from above once we’re in the temple. Two guys are ahead of us—Team A—leading the way; Henry and I run on each side of Montague, packs tight against our backs, the leather sheath of my boot blade rubbing against the already tender skin. Andrew in the Iraqi police uniform, Nutesh, and another soldier helping Sevda—Team B—are behind us. The field we landed in is clay-like underfoot, a challenge to get traction in, but now we’re running on harder, drier soil. Small clumps of vegetation grow at the bases of the huge palm trees, and birds squawk at us overhead—we’ve disturbed their predawn slumber. A house sits about a football-field length away, but only a few lights are on. Maybe it belongs to the farmer who owns this land?

  We scale a waist-height wall of mud brick and stone at the edge of the property, and then we’re out in the open, with no trees or grassy cover whatsoever. The Euphrates announces herself with the unmistakable algae-tinged scent where water meets soil. We cut sharply across the sandy brown field, diving through another stand of palms to find the river’s edge.

  It takes my breath away to see it in person.

  The water murmurs past thick and black in the darkness. The security guys set up a small perimeter around us; Nutesh unzips the front pockets of our packs and hands us our collection kits. Holding up the three clear vials I have to fill, the water is a brownish-green in the spill of my small flashlight.

  First objective accomplished.

  Montague and the guards communicate with hand signals as the barks of at least two dogs breaks through the river’s whispers. There’s a house up ahead, and lights have just gone on. We need to move again.

  For university students on an archaeological mission, we sure look suspicious.

  The original plan had us running along the Euphrates’s edge but we’re turning back east, in the direction we came. I can’t ask; I can only trust they know what they’re doing, and follow. The irrigation canal we saw on the satellite imagery comes into view up ahead. Our two leaders run as close to it as they can—it’s protected by a tall cyclone fence topped with coiled wire—but they tell us to run faster. The barking dogs aren’t letting up.

  We loop south around the side of the wider irrigation pond, and then we’re cutting east again, thankfully into a stand of more trees and tall weedy grasses and shrubbery. It’s to our bene
fit that this is all going down near the water, where things actually grow; if we were farther from the Euphrates, in any of those areas we just flew over, we’d be screwed. All brown, no trees. Like the desert outside Vegas. Might as well be Mars.

  We stop in another clump of palms and what I think might be eucalyptus and poplar to evaluate where we are and listen to see if those dogs are chasing us, along with their humans.

  It’s quiet, and no flashlight beams bounce across the landscape toward us.

  The relief is obvious in everyone’s faces.

  “Up ahead—Lion of Babylon, the ass-end of the Processional Way. We’re almost there,” Montague says. “Move east, right down the side of the Processional walls, as quiet as we can. Ninmakh is directly ahead. Any questions?”

  I look to Henry, then around us, and back to Montague and Nutesh. “Wait—where’s Sevda?”

  Montague turns sharply, looks toward Andrew and the others who are securing our back end, about ten feet behind us. “Do we have a twenty on Sevda?” He talks into his mic collar.

  Heads shake. “How could we have lost her already?” I ask, trying not to panic. “Did she fall?”

  And then I feel a hand on my arm, and the sand next to me moves with a boot print. It’s not that she’s invisible, because out of the corner of my eye, I can make out her shape.

  It’s more like she’s... shimmering.

  “Oh my god,” I whisper. “Damn, now that is a cool trick.”

  “Maybe we really are X-Men,” Henry says.

  “Are you sure you can’t cover all of us with this?” I ask her.

  “Not strong enough,” she says, her voice like a whisper on a breeze.

  “Cancel. We found her,” Montague says, looking in the direction of where she seems to be standing. “Ingéniuex. Stay close. Your eyes aren’t perfect yet, non?”

  A disembodied thumbs-up shimmers in and out of focus. Montague presses his mic again. “Andrew, can you get a visual on Xavier?”

  Andrew puts his binoculars to his eyes. “Negative. Still too far out at this angle.”

  And then we’re moving again. The walls of the Processional Way on our right are huge, the brick so uniform and perfect, it has to be the reconstructed sections. Another copse of trees sits to our left; flanking those is a series of long beige tents, several of which bear long canvas signs announcing them as property of the State Board of Antiquities and Heritage, Iraq, bold KEEP OUT signs in English and Arabic.

  You don’t have to ask me twice.

  Gravel, or maybe broken bricks, crunch underfoot—and then the grand Temple of Ninmakh rises before us.

  It’s a hell of a lot bigger in real life.

  As we move toward it, the rebuilt Ishtar Gate appears at our right, the paved entrance surrounded by trimmed bushes and trees, the area still quiet of workers or tourists. The Gate’s blue brick is so brilliant, and the yellow and white of the animal reliefs on its front nearly glow in the waning dark.

  We’re nearly at the Temple’s front when Montague stops us, arm outstretched.

  “Hold,” he says, dropping to a crouched position against a shoulder-height pile, what was probably part of an actual structure at one point but now is just a melting stack of ancient mud bricks. Like so much of these ruins, it seems.

  We follow what he does. He listens to someone in his ear and then whispers into his mic to Andrew. “We still can’t get eyes on Xavier?”

  “Negative.”

  The Team A guys crouch and pull bolt cutters from one another’s packs.

  Something scurries from under us, and I have to throw my hand over my mouth to not scream.

  “Probably a mouse. Just a mouse,” Henry says. And you’re probably lying.

  When the first waft of that deathly stench washes under my nose, I instinctively grab Henry’s arm, eyes wide as I look at him.

  “Gen?”

  I sniff again. And again. Scan the ground for arachnid movement.

  Nothing. At least nothing supernatural.

  Nutesh is here. The Etemmu can’t get you.

  I can feel the vibration of the AVRAKEDAVRA against my back, through the layers of fabric in my pack, my coat, the bulletproof vest.

  It knows. It’s almost home.

  “Never mind. I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  Andrew stands with his head just above our hiding spot, scanning the still-dark area. “Scaffold visible. Rooftop rendezvous spot visible. Can’t get a visual on X from here.” He pauses and moves over a bit, adjusting his angle. “Something’s not right.”

  Henry and I look at one another; he looks as scared as I feel.

  “We have to move. Sun’s going to be up in fifty minutes,” Nutesh says.

  “Team A, be ready to cut us inside. Once we enter the temple, A and B will establish the perimeter. Nutesh and heirs will move into position to commence operation. Are we clear?”

  “Copy that,” echoes in our ears.

  Montague gives the signal for us to stand and move, following Team A toward the structure. Instead of entering through the massive arched front, we’re going in a side arched entryway—apparently it’s a more direct route into the temple’s heart.

  As we approach, Team A has their bolt cutters at the ready—except the gate is already open. Montague flattens us against the exterior temple walls.

  “Did Xavier cut us in?” Montague whispers.

  “No cutters,” Andrew answers. “Not that I know of.”

  “Merde,” Montague mutters. “Be ready.” Quietly, sidearms are drawn and safeties are unlatched.

  I don’t know if I will ever breathe again.

  Team A goes ahead.

  We hear it before Henry and I can see around Montague’s form in front of us.

  “Hands up! Hands where I can see them! Don’t move!”

  Followed by the screams of Team A’s two members as they drop to their knees, weapons forgotten, writhing in pain as blood vessels break and muscle fibers tear.

  “Jesus,” is the only thing Montague says as we emerge from the arched entryway to be greeted by not only Aveline Darrow wreaking her havoc on our team members, but Lucian standing proudly behind three metal fold-up chairs, to which are attached three humans, still alive:

  Hélène Delacroix.

  Lucas.

  And Ash.

  44

  “WELCOME TO THE TEMPLE OF NINMAKH,” LUCIAN DAGAN DMITRI SAYS. “As this is a holy place, I must ask you to lower your weapons.”

  I’m afraid to move, but a quick scan around us explains why Xavier isn’t on the scaffold, or the roof.

  He’s slumped in the corner, unconscious and bleeding, hands and feet bound. His scoped rifle sits in the far corner at the opposite end of the temple.

  “All of this time and expense and mayhem, Nutesh, not to mention the cost in lives lost,” Lucian says, moving behind Hélène. When he puts his hands on her shoulders, she sits up proud and defiant, despite her disheveled appearance, a bleeding cut above her right eye.

  My chest ignites like a reactor.

  “She was like a mother to me when I was young,” Lucian says. “I won’t hurt her.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Aveline snarls.

  It’s unnerving to see Lucian in combat-style clothing—I’m so used to seeing him in a suit. His tiepin that started this whole mystery—the inverted triangle overlying the circle—is affixed to the flap over his left breast pocket.

  He looks as dangerous as ever.

  Aveline has made quick business of the Team A guys, now behind us on the dirty stone-tile floor, unmoving. She kicks away weapons and drops Andrew and Montague to their knees, roping their hands behind their backs and then shoving them against the wall.

  “An Iraqi police uniform? Nutesh, you really went all out here. I’m impressed,” she says, standing in front of Andrew. Nutesh remains fixed next to me.

  Aveline then steps behind Hélène, Lucas, and Ash and stretches her arm in front of her, fingers splayed, before squeezing he
r hand into a tight fist.

  Which drops Henry and me to our knees. My left arm and the carving in my chest explode in pain, as if the cuts were freshly made. It only takes a few seconds for the blood to seep through my shirt, hot against the weight of the body armor, and make my breaths ragged.

  “And here I thought I was going to have to cut you up again for the binding ritual, sister,” she says. “You’ve made this so much easier for me. Merci.”

  “Aveline, enough!” Nutesh bellows.

  “Yes, please, stop showboating,” Lucian scolds. He and Aveline lock eyes, a hard glare between them—a fracture in their veneer?—before she unclenches her fist, releasing the stranglehold on my lungs.

  “We’re going to make this as simple as possible. I’m sure you all have better places to be. I know I do,” Aveline says. “S’il vous plait, mes amis, the books. One at a time. Bring them forward, put them here on the brick edge of this very handy fire-pit.” She unzips the left breast pocket in her dark green, waist-length jacket. “What? Do you like my outfit?” She spins once. “I’ve been saving it for today, just for Iraq. Perfect for playing soldier girl, don’t you think?” Her laugh echoes around the enclosed temple walls, and what felt so spacious on aerial photos suddenly feels like a coffin. “You know, I was not old enough to see this place in its heyday, but I can imagine it was magnificent. What about you, Hélène? Was it beautiful when you were here, young and in love with your darling Nutesh?”

  Hélène turns her head slightly toward Aveline, without making eye contact, and spits.

  Aveline laughs at her. “I guess that’s a non?”

  She slows behind Lucas in the middle, blindfolded but frozen as she rests her hands on his chair. “One incentive for each of you, although—I am sad to see that Sevda isn’t here. I thought she’d want to save her lover. What has happened to her?”

  “You should know after what you did in Turkey,” Henry growls.

  “Did she fall? I was worried about that. Oh well, Lucas, you will have to rely on the kindness of these folks to not leave you behind.”

  Henry and I exchange a quick glance. Sevda obviously isn’t dead, but we don’t know where she is—and neither does Aveline or Lucian.