The Lost Ark

by J. R. Rain

  She tried to look shocked, but the wicked gleam in her eye gave her away. The woman could damn well make a mouse chase a cat.

  “She is a good sign,” said Camilla. “It is not often that a beautiful American girl shows up alone looking for your help.”

  “But she’s asking the impossible.”

  “She’s asking for your help to search for her missing father,” said Camilla gently. “She needs peace of mind. She needs to know that she had at least tried, Sam. Sometimes, that makes it easier to deal with the loss. I have dealt with such loss. I understand.”

  In that instant Camilla looked old and tired. Fine vertical lines spread away from her lips, merging with the other lines of her face. Lines women pay thousands of dollars to erase. She had dealt with her own loss, a lifetime of killed husbands and sons. Three sons and two husbands, to be exact, lost through war and disease.

  “You are her only hope, Sam.”

  I said nothing.

  “And maybe she’s your only hope, too,” said Camilla.

  “What the devil does that mean?”

  “You’ve been here a long time, Sam. Don’t you get homesick?”

  “The word implies one has a home and a family. I have neither,” I said. “You sound like you’re trying to get rid of me.”

  “You’re a gifted photojournalist,” she said. “You have much to offer the world, but you can’t do so if you waste your life away here, in the back of beyond.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but closed it again. At this hour I had little argument left in me, and Camilla was probably right. I lit a cigarette and sat on the corner of the metal sink behind me.

  “A vile habit,” she said, motioning to the cigarette.

  “I agree. Filthy.” I shivered to show my revulsion. Then took another drag.

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “A suicidal desire to know how I'm going to die.”

  We were quiet. Steely Dan played from the chrome and glass jukebox on the opposite wall. The jukebox was shipped over from the United States. What’s a bar without a jukebox? When she finished her raki, I helped her into her coat, even buttoning it up for her. Together, we exited the bar and stepped out into the cool night air.

  “Help her, Sam.”

  I stood there in the cold night air, shivering. I could have used a jacket myself.

  “You’re a good man, but you do not belong here. Dogubayazit is not your home. You need to move on.” And with that she left. I watched her go, swaying into the night, disappearing into the brightly lit foyer of the hotel next door, where she lived in a spacious suite on the fourth floor.

  I lit another cigarette and stepped back into the bar, closing the doors behind me.

  Chapter Eight

  At 7:34 a.m., we were seated at a counter in the Gule Gule's cafe. I had ordered bork for us, a fine Turkish pastry. I was sipping grapefruit juice and Faye Roberts was staring into a small cup of Turkish coffee. She was dressed in black jeans and a red long-sleeved shirt, cowboy-like. Her hair was up in a ball, held in place by a few strategically placed hairpins. She didn’t appear to be wearing make-up, but I could have been wrong. Anyway, she didn’t need any.

  “You look like hell,” she told me.

  “Thanks,” I said, yawning on cue. “It’s still the middle of the night for me.”

  “Have some coffee,” she said.

  “I can’t.”

  She looked at me over her tiny coffee mug. “Can’t or won’t?”

  I nodded. “I have an aversion to coffee that tastes like mud.”

  “Then this must be pretty important.”

  The blond pine walls were bare, save for the occasional early Impressionistic painting. Reprint, of course. The café was half full. Ever the optimist. We were alone at the counter, although I could hear the cook whistling in the kitchen. Another morning person. One of them.

  “I want you to know,” I said, “that Camilla has been strumming us like a six string.”

  Her eyes narrowed behind the tiny coffee cup. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s playing matchmaker, thinks she knows what’s best for me. For us.”

  “And she thinks I’m what’s best for you?” Faye laughed pleasantly. “And that you’re what’s best for me?”

  “You just happen to be the first American woman to come this way. Perhaps ever. And I just happen to be the best guide in Dogubayazit.”

  “Or so rumor has it,” she said. “So what makes you so good?”

  I sipped the bittersweet juice, and tried not to make a grapefruit face. “It’s my guarantee.”

  “Guarantee?” She sounded dubious.

  “Uh huh. If you don’t think I’ve done one helluva job, then you get your money back.”

  “That’s good to know. So how many times have you ascended Mount Ararat?”

  I did the math. We were quiet a while. “Over fifty,” I said eventually.

  She sipped her coffee, and seemed to enjoy it, which was beyond my comprehension. “So you know the mountain well?”

  “I wouldn’t call us sweethearts, but mutually respectful friends, surely.”

  The cook ruthlessly banged pots, whistled more happy tunes. An older man sat down next to me. He smiled, and I grinned back, until I realized he was smiling at Faye Roberts. Faye smiled back politely.

  “Pretty women get all the smiles,” I muttered.

  “You think I’m pretty?” she asked, grinning.

  “Never mind.”

  She stared at me. “So why did you ask to see me, Sam?”

  “Because Camilla knows what she’s doing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She purposefully suggested an alternate guide for you to use, one for whom I have a low opinion.”

  Faye Roberts made sipping noises around the coffee mug. She waited.

  “So I’m here to rectify the situation,” I said.

  “Really?” she said, raising her eyebrow. “Or do you just like to say rectify? Never mind, I don’t want to know. Niksar will be here in ten minutes, I believe.”

  I shook my head. “I took care of that. Niksar is aware that plans have changed.”

  Our food came, served by an older woman in a hair net. Faye ignored the food. Instead, she stared at me with increasingly narrowing eyes until she looked like a hatless cowboy riding into the sunset. “Couldn’t you have just recommended a different guide, one for whom you have a higher opinion?”

  I shrugged. “To be honest, I had hoped you would go away. But, seeing that you’re determined to climb the mountain, I won’t trust your safety to anyone else. So now I’m forced to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Keep me out of trouble? Sam Ward, I don’t need your charity work.”

  “Yes you do.”

  She thought about that, then nodded. “Then I insist on paying you triple your asking price,” she said two bites later.

  “And I insist on accepting your payment.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “I’ll need at least a day to prepare.” I said.

  “What do I need to bring?”

  “Four or five days worth of undergarments. I’ll bring everything else. Of course, you will carry your fair share.”

  Faye grinned. “Of course. I’ve backpacked numerous times.”

  “Numerous is good,” I said.

  “Is there going to be much rock climbing?”

  I shook my head. “Most of Ararat can be ascended on foot, following well-worn sheep and goat trails, without the use of carabiners and rope ladders. However, we will be roped together for safety’s sake when we reach the glaciers.”

  The old man continued to smile at Faye. She ignored him. I finished the bork and wiped my mouth on a paper napkin. Instead of finishing hers, Faye placed some Turkish currency on the counter, enough to pay for her own breakfast.

  “Tomorrow then?” she said, standing.

  “Before first light,” I said.

  When she left, I promptl
y speared her bork over to my plate.

  Chapter Nine

  Later that morning, working in the small, hot storage room next to my upstairs office, I selected pairs of long underwear, wind- and rain-resistant nylon/polyurethane jackets, a dozen or so pairs of synthetic socks, insulated wool caps, insulated wool/polyester pants, gaiters, compass, altimeter, isobutane fuel stove, flashlights, plastic topographic map of Ararat, sunglasses, first-aid supplies, aluminum pots, pocketknives, matches, ice axes, crampons, carabiners, snow shovels, and kernmantle ropes. And more. All of which I packed into two internal frame backpacks. Lastly, I selected two four-season expedition tents. One tent might have been presumptuous.

  Downstairs, I opened a bottle of beer, dipping into my stock again. I lose more money that way. As I leaned against the counter, contemplating the many mysteries of life, and whether or not I should have a second beer, the bar’s front doors opened.

  The mid-day sun illuminated the scarred floor at the entrance. Two silhouetted figures stood in the doorway. One figure was abnormally tall, head rising above the door frame. The other was tall, as well, but not abnormally so. The smaller of the two appeared to be wearing a headcloth, which was not uncommon in these parts.

  “I'll be open in an hour,” I said in Turkish. “Although the big fellow can do whatever the hell he wants.”

  “I’m not here for drinks, my friend, although that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.” The voice was filled with pride and arrogance. And a touch of humor. The humor always made him sound sadistic. I knew the voice well.

  Emir Omar Ali stepped into the bar, and his massive bodyguard, Farid Bastian, followed silently, ducking under the door frame. He closed the door gently behind him and stood quietly off to the side, shoulders hunched forward as if his arms were too heavy to support.

  “May we come in, Mr. Ward?” asked Omar Ali.

  “How much more in do you want to be, emir?” I said.

  Omar shook his head. “I can always count on you, Mr. Ward, to put me in my place. There are those who would fear for their lives if they spoke to me in such a manner.”

  “I think I just piddled myself.”

  He shook his head. “You are a typical American, Mr. Ward. Insulting and discourteous.”

  “A nation of assholes.”

  Omar Ali stepped from the shadows and into the dim light of the bar, and I saw him clearly for the first time. I stared, shocked. Since our expedition two years ago, he had lost much weight, enough to reveal the dark hollows of his cheeks and temples. As always, his thick mustache was immaculately trimmed, flecked with gray. His deep-set eyes studied me from under a heavy brow. There was something different about his eyes, something that wasn’t there two years ago. Desperation, perhaps. Fatigue. Or both.

  “You’re dying,” I said suddenly.

  He inhaled loudly, the air rattling in his throat. Omar closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his sunken chest. His stomach seemed inverted. I could see his ribs through the fabric of his robe. “Yes, Mr. Ward. In fact, I should be dead now. I was given six months to live. That was three years ago. My strength is gone, and so is my fight. I have, since last we met, rapidly deteriorated.” His rheumy eyes studied me dispassionately. “As you know, Mr. Ward, I’m engaged in a highly classified operation upon Ararat.”

  “I just love secrets.”

  He continued as if I had not spoken. “I am here for two reasons. First, I’ve come to ask you a question.” From his robe, the emir removed a thick envelope and set it on the counter before me. I glanced inside. Lots of hard currency.

  “You didn’t have to rob a bank just for me, emir.”

  “Your expertise could prove invaluable.”

  I motioned toward one of the round tables. “I can hardly wait to see what I know.”

  Using a silent command, perhaps a dog whistle, his bodyguard moved forward from the shadows and pulled a wooden chair from the table. The emir sat slowly and (like any good date) the bodyguard pushed him back in. I sat opposite the emir. Farid moved back into the shadows.

  “What do you know of Jans Struys?” asked Omar.

  I drank my beer, and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. A baboonish gesture. The emir watched me curiously as if I were an exhibit at the zoo. Finally, I said, “Struys was a Seventeenth Century adventurer and soldier and part-time surgeon. He would have disappeared into obscurity if not for his association with Noah’s ark.” I paused, getting my facts straight. And for dramatic reasons, of course. “Struys claimed to have seen and touched Noah’s ark.”

  The emir shrugged. “There are many such eyewitnesses.”

  “True. However, most eyewitnesses put the ark within a glacier or perched somewhere within an ice cliff. Jans Struys, however, has a different story.”

  Emir Omar sat forward and put his weight on his elbows. Obviously, he was unable to contain his excitement. “Please continue, Mr. Ward.”

  “After Struys cured an Armenian shepherd of what must have been a world-class hernia, the thankful shepherd, who lived on Mount Ararat, showed Struys a secret route to Noah’s ark. The route involved a series of tunnels within the mountain. According to legend, the tunnels lead to a massive cavern of ice, and within the cavern is the ark.” I grinned and drank some warm beer. “That’s Struys’s story. Even in ark lore, it’s pretty wild.”

  “Has anyone ever come across these tunnels?” asked Omar.

  I shook my head. “Many have looked. Although Ararat is riddled with caves and tunnels, no one has ever found an extensive network of them. Which is why Struys’s story is considered nothing more than fantasy.”

  The emir studied his thick, perfectly manicured fingernails. Perhaps the only thick and healthy thing on his body. He rubbed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger, hand shaking terribly. “Did Struys mention something that would indicate the secret tunnel? A marker perhaps?”

  I nodded. “The marker is a narrow protrusion of rock which Struys describes as an arthritic finger, gnarled at the joints. The marker would indicate the secret tunnel.” I paused and looked Omar in the eye. “When did you discover the marker, emir?”

  He was quiet, then shrugged as if he had nothing to lose. “Perhaps a month ago, or more. But the tunnel is blocked by a cave-in. We have men clearing it now, but there is little headway due to the extent of the cave-in. Your comments have satisfied my curiosity, Mr. Ward, for I have been relying on the questionable advice of others.”

  “Is that what this is all about?” I asked, exasperated. “Is that why the whole mountain is closed? Because of the goddamn marker, which in fact could be a fluke?”

  Omar’s skull grinned. “No, Mr. Ward. There is much more going on here than a marker, more than you may ever know. The secret tunnel just happens to be a bonus, more for my archaeologist than me, of course, as I care little for what he may or may not find in the tunnel.”

  “What do you want then, emir? Why are you here?”

  He seemed about to speak, but then paused. Farid, the stone-faced bodyguard, appeared suddenly interested in the conversation, but then that could have been just gas. Omar looked at me, “I’m here for revenge, Sam.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He simply sighed and shook his head. He was done talking.

  As he stood, I continued pushing, “Last month, two American scientists disappeared on Ararat, about the same time you found your marker.” I let my words hang in the air for a moment. “This would be a coincidence, correct?”

  Omar turned, his smile revealing his sharp canine teeth, a wolfish smile. “I can hardly be responsible for the safety of two men foolish enough to trespass upon Mount Ararat.”

  I drained the last of the beer, considering the significance of his words. “And how did you know, emir, that both American scientists were men? Was it just a Freudian slip, cultural bias or just male arrogance?” I paused, swirling the contents of my near-empty beer bottle. “Or do you know something about their disappearance?”

  Inste
ad of answering, he inhaled deeply, ribs pushing out against the material of his robe, forehead dotted with perspiration. He looked directly into my eyes and held my gaze. “The second reason I’m here, Mr. Ward, is to give you fair warning. My sources tell me that there is an American woman in town, a young college professor. She has come to Ararat to search for her missing father. She will be seeking a guide. Being a fellow American you are a likely candidate.” Omar paused. “She wishes to illegally obtain access to the mountain, my mountain. This is not wise, my friend. Consider the money as an incentive to stay away. Good day, Mr. Ward.”

  With that, the emir left. And as Farid Bastian followed, he caught my eye. He nodded simply. The heavy door clicked softly shut behind them.

  When they were gone I opened another beer. To hell with inventory.

  Chapter Ten

  At 4:53 a.m., I was leaning against the fender of my Range Rover in front of my bar, smoking a cigarette and watching a potato chip bag scuttle across the dirt road, sunrise still an hour away. The air was cold and damp, and a faint mist crept along Dogubayazit’s empty dirt streets. The air smelled clean, but also like more rain, too.

  At 4:57 a.m., Faye Roberts emerged from within the Gule Gule. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She moved quickly and confidently. Long, even strides. Probably an athlete in college. Volleyball? Swim team? Full contact bingo? She wore loose-fitting blue jeans and a green windbreaker with a wide white stripe across her chest. Her tan hiking boots were brand spanking new. I shook my head and exhaled a long stream of smoke and silently predicted she would get blisters within an hour of climbing. Her brown hair was pulled back through the rear opening of an L.A. Dodgers baseball cap. She was holding a small, colorful knapsack, pulled tight with a drawstring.

  “Go Dodger blue,” I said when she was close enough to hear.

  “Dodger who?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “You sleep well?”

  She shook her head. “Too nervous and too excited.”

  “Both of which can be detrimental to sleep.”