by J. R. Rain
I pinned the adder to the rock and promptly removed its head with my pocketknife, careful of the fangs, as the teeth could still emit poison even in death. I let the blood drain steadily for a minute or two (although the blood would have been nice, too). I coiled the carcass and carried it in my hand. Here, the cold weather would preserve it nicely.
The wind blowing off the ice was cooler by at least thirty degrees. We pulled on our hoods and tied them tight and walked silently side by side. The sun cast our shadows across the smooth ice and within minutes we were surrounded by a desolate sea of white emptiness as the glacier spread before us as far as the eye could see.
Faye broke the oppressive silence. “How thick is this glacier?”
“Here, it’s only a few dozen feet deep,” I said, raising my voice above the wind. “But higher up, it can be as much as fifty. The peak itself, which is covered in ice year round, is two hundred feet thick.”
I zipped my jacket up to my neck, and shoved my hands deep in my pockets. I let the snake hang over a shoulder. Faye shuddered at the sight. The glacier was painfully white, reflecting the sun up into our sore eyes. Sunglasses would have taken care of most of that soreness. Sunglasses were now a distant luxury.
The ice spread away from us in all directions, smooth and without much formation. The wind blew steadily, kicking up powdery snow. I shielded my eyes with my forearm.
Ahead, the glacier seemed to dip down in a slight depression, and within minutes, we stopped at the edge of a deep crevasse. The inner walls glowed wetly, reflecting the sun.
“And I assume you know all about crevasses?” I asked.
“Crevasses are rips, or tears, within the ice. As glaciers move up and down mountains, the ice separates and forms crevasses. The fissures are deep—and deadly—if one is not alert.” She paused and gave me a rather flirtatious look that seemed entirely out of place but still took my breath away. “The running water you hear is due to meltwater rushing below the glacier, which forms rivers such as Bear River, which, in turn, are the headwaters to the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers.”
I raised my eyebrows, impressed. “Very good, Professor Roberts. Will this be on the quiz?”
She smiled. I smiled. I took some air, filling my lungs. She had a hell of a smile.
Later, as the sun continued to set, a pea-soup fog rolled in, completely engulfing us. Without an altimeter and compass to guide the way, we had little choice but to sit it out, which we did in the middle of the ice. Faye held my hand and rested her head against my shoulder. Our polyurethane pants kept the cold and wet out. The wind blew over us with gale-like force, just in case we weren’t truly miserable. My clothing flapped like a sail. The wind thundered in my ears. I tightened my hood and ducked my head and closed my eyes and listened to the fury of the wind. We were just two forlorn figures in the middle of nowhere. It was surreal and breath-taking and a little nightmarish. When the wind had finally died, I lifted my head. Thankfully, the fog was gone as well. And as the setting sun angled directly into our faces, as a mild wind scattered loose snow over the glacier as if pushed by an invisible broom, I helped Faye to her feet and started forward.
Almost immediately, we saw the tents for the first time.
* * *
The tents formed a large camp, set within a horseshoe of granite boulders, shielded from the wind and spread over perhaps five acres. To the right of camp were rows of barrack-like pup tents, room enough to house two or three men. To the left was a much larger tent that I knew to be Omar’s personal and rather extravagant tent, as big as a double wide mobile home. However, it was the center tent that aroused my curiosity. Like something from Barnum and Bailey, minus the red stripes, the tent was big enough to host the Super Bowl. All activity seemed centered around this tent, as men and supplies came and went through the main entrance on the south side.
We moved from the open glacier to the relative safety of the ring of boulders. It appeared we had gone unseen.
“What now?” asked Faye.
“We wait until dark.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll tell you what’s next.”
As night fell, and the shadows emerged from the rocks like phantoms escaping into the night, the tents cast dark silhouettes against the clear night sky. Powerful floodlights clicked on, illuminating the entire perimeter of the camp.
While we waited, I gathered some dry grass that had withered among the boulders, then used my pocket knife to cut a notch on one end of an elderberry branch. Like a lumberjack, I sawed the notch with a similar branch until the heat ignited the surrounding tinder. The fire, soon crackling, was built low into the boulders, which diffused the rising smoke. With luck, it should go without detection.
I held the snake over the small blaze; it crackled and popped in my hands. It smelled like used oil, but that didn’t stop my stomach from growling.
“Smells awful,” said Faye, shoving her nose in the crook of her arm.
I cut off a large chunk for her. Inside, the meat was snow white. She stared at it with open revulsion. Grinning, I took a bite or two. “Tastes like chicken.”
She held the chunk of snake meat with her thumb and forefinger, examined it up close. “What about the skin?” she asked.
“Don’t eat the skin.”
“Then why did you leave the skin on?” Her face was white, pale in the moonlight.
“The skin locks in the juice.”
“Oh, God.”
She nibbled at the rubbery meat. Juice oozed down her chin. She ate perhaps one mouse-sized bite in all.
“How is it?” I asked.
Before I could get the words out, vomit launched from her mouth and immediately extinguished the fire. We were thrown into complete darkness.
“That good, huh?”
* * *
The moon shone down like a pale cycloptic eye, its silver light touching down on everything, although we were safely hidden within the shadows of the boulders. Faye was breathing hard in the thin mountain air. So was I. After all, we were nearly twelve thousand feet above sea level and oxygen was sparse at best. The wind picked up and whistled through the small openings in the rock, and brought with it the inviting smell of a fire from somewhere within camp. On the distant horizon, a lumbering cloud slowly approached on the wind, spilling across the sky like an oil slick.
The main tent rose like a Celtic monolith from the center of camp, and glowed in the artificial lights. The lights were powered by generators I could neither see nor hear. The tent’s fabric flapped wildly in the increasingly cold wind, which numbed my own lungs with each breath. I would kill for a hot cup of joe. I would kill for hot anything. The smaller tents all flapped in unison with each gust of wind.
“I’m hungry,” said Faye.
“There’s more snake. We didn’t touch the tail.”
“That’s not funny, Sam Ward.”
“But I thought archaeology professors will eat just about anything.”
“You’re thinking of Indiana Jones, Sam. And if I have to keep Dr. Quincy out of any arguments, then you have to leave him out, too.”
I grinned. It was probably too dark for her to see me grin, but I did so anyway.
“So what do we do next?” she asked.
“We need to find some answers.”
We heard it coming from the west, a distant pulsing thunder that rolled across the open ice plateau. Approaching rapidly was a low-flying helicopter, bearing down on us like an owl hunting field mice. However, it turned to port and moved up the mountain. A typical military-issued helicopter, it was an Italian-built Ab-212 ASW, designed for submarine hunting and electronic warfare. It was out of place here on Ararat.
And Noah’s ark, as far as I knew, wasn’t a submarine.
The chopper settled carefully within Omar’s camp, causing tents to flap crazily. The wide cabin door opened and a handful of men emerged from within the craft. First was the massive form of Farid Bastian, Omar’s personal bodyguard, followed by O
mar Ali, resplendent in a pure white robe that blended with the surrounding ice. A second, larger version of Omar appeared, followed by a handful of soldiers. The prince led his small entourage back to his tent.
Chapter Twenty-six
“I would guess the thin guy with the mustache is Omar Ali,” said Faye, sitting back and crossing her arms over her chest.
“The one and only.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We wait for things to quiet down.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’m going to find some answers, while you wait here.”
“No way, Sam—” She raised her voice and made as if to stand up.
I pulled her back down. I put my finger to her lips and shook my head. The whites of her eyes glowed brightly.
“But, Sam…”
“No buts.”
She made a pouty noise. It was too dark to tell, but she was probably sticking out her lower lip. “I can’t just sit here.”
“Yes you can,” I said.
I watched the camp. All was quiet. The arrival of His Holiness seemed to be the last of the day’s excitement. The temperature continued to drop. I felt as if I were inhaling tiny bits of freezing glass. I scanned the camp, looking for the person I knew had to exist.
And then I saw him.
* * *
He was dressed in white, camouflaged with his surroundings, although his dark mustache stood out like a pimple on a supermodel’s nose. Strapped to his back was a menacing-looking semiautomatic weapon. He was moving slowly through the north end of camp, working his way south, down between the rows of pup tents, pausing occasionally to rub his gloved hands. From the south, he strolled west towards us. I heard Faye’s breath catch in her throat, but I was confident we were still well-enough hidden. When the soldier neared the western perimeter, he stopped and rubbed his jaw—and looked directly at me.
Something must have tipped him off. A reflection of starlight on white teeth. The flash of a white palm. Our misting breaths. I reached down and eased my pocketknife from my belt. It felt horribly inadequate, but it was all I had.
He swung his weapon around and moved out into the darkness. Faye choked on her last breath and gripped my upper arm down to the bone, and whispered: “He sees us, Sam.” Her breath was hot in my ear, and a little exciting.
“Just sit tight.”
The soldier stopped and rubbed his eyes, frowning. I tried my best to blend into my surroundings, thinking rock-like thoughts. Faye’s grip was becoming increasing tighter on my arm.
The guard pulled his hood away from his head and scratched his thick mane of black hair. Finally, he re-shouldered his weapon and turned away, moving back through camp at the same leisurely pace.
I let out a long sigh of relief. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath.
“That was close,” I said.
Faye didn’t say anything, but mercifully relaxed her hold on my upper arm. Then she leaned into me and whispered in my ear: “Why is there only one guard?”
My heart was still hammering like the king’s blacksmith with a deadline. “The camp probably doesn’t need more than one,” I said, “Which means that whatever they’re guarding doesn’t affect Turkish national security.”
“So it’s probably not military,” concluded Faye.
I shrugged. “Probably not.”
“Then why is the military here?”
“The Turkish government will do that, to protect important dignitaries visiting from other countries.”
I continued to watch the guard for some time, trying to discern his pattern. After forty-five minutes, I realized he had no pattern. He moved slowly one way, and then slowly another, meandering in and out of the rows of tents, pausing often to blow on his hands or light a cigarette. His heart just didn’t seem to be into it. He stopped near one such tent and reached inside the flap and removed a clear bottle of alcohol, twisted off the cap and took a big swig.
I turned to Faye. “Keeps the chill away.”
“I wouldn’t mind having a little myself,” she said.
I told her to sit tight. And while she protested, I worked my way down the rocks.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I slipped from the shadows and crossed the open ice field, feeling naked and exposed. The twin spotlights cast my shadow in two different directions. My boots crunched loudly over the ice. An eternity later, although it had only been twenty seconds, I reached camp. I moved as stealthily as a grizzly intoxicated on fermented berries.
Once in camp, I moved low to the ground, stepping quickly from tent to tent. From within most tents came a cacophony of snores and mumbles and wheezes. Sleeping on ice is hell on the sinuses. Shortly, I was crouched before the desired tent. So far, I had gone unnoticed. I took a deep breath and eased the zipper down, and waited. Nothing stirred. No alarms. I slipped inside, leaving the flap partly open to allow for some light.
I scanned the tent quickly. Two bunks. The left contained a figure of unknown size, age or sex. Beneath the bunk was the gleaming barrel of a sub-machine gun. By the looks of it, a Russian AK-47. The right bunk was empty. A quarter would have bounced nicely on the smartly-tucked blanket. And there, propped just inside the tent opening, was the clear bottle of a generic brand of Turkish vodka. I carefully opened it and took a swig. I took another, feeling the warmth spread down my esophagus and through my stomach. A good, good feeling. I screwed the cap back on and leaned it back against the tent opening.
I moved forward in a crab-like crawl, my boots brushing silently over the nylon floor. Without warning, my head banged into an unseen lantern. The loud clang of metal and glass could have woken the dead. However, the figure on the bed barely stirred, simply mumbling: “Idiot, the open flap is letting in the cold.”
“The flap has let in more than that, my friend,” I said.
He sat up suddenly, eyes wide in the half-light. He made a futile effort for the weapon under his cot until I pressed the blade of my pocketknife into his throat. “Do not make a sound!”
He bit my hand, tearing the skin. I shoved my fist into his mouth. He looked like a stuffed pig at a Hawaiian luau.
“I will remove my fist,” I said in Arabic. “If you promise not to yell. Do you promise?”
He nodded; my fist nodded with him.
I pressed my knife blade into his throat, drawing blood. “But if you do decide to yell I will cut your throat. Then you will be dead and I will simply get what I need from someone else. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
I removed my fist. He sucked in air like a newborn. He was a young, good-looking kid. He was also shaking like a leaf. Most important, he was shaking like a leaf quietly. “Very good. What’s your name?"
“Hayik.”
“You are a soldier?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who I am?”
He paused, turning his head slightly, scanning my face. A curious grin touched his lips. “You own the bar in Dogubayazit,” he said, “and you charge too much for beer.”
“I am a long way from my bar, Hayik. And you come there for atmosphere, not a deal on beer. Anyway, I have come for answers, and I will get them from you.” There was a long pause. He stared at me. I shifted my weight and got my shoulder into a better position across his chest. He wasn’t going anywhere.
He shook his head. “I will give you no answers.”
I respected his resolve, but there was no time for it. “You will, or you die. And you will not be dying for your honorable country. You will dying for the Arab’s greed.”
His eyes wavered. A few seconds later, he said, “I will not die for him.” He swallowed. “Can you remove the knife?”
I adjusted the point, but kept the blade firmly against his throat. “What do you know of the American professor and his student?” I asked.
He nodded and said, “Ah.”
“Speak quickly,” I said, emphasizing my urgency by pressing the knife deeper into his skin.
“Are they alive?”
When he spoke, he did so carefully, not wishing to make any sudden movements. “They are alive, as far as I know.”
I eased the pressure. “Where are they?”
“There is a cave above camp, perhaps an hour’s climb. They are there.”
Hayik gave me the directions. I knew the cave all too well. “Why are they there?”
“They work for the emir as slaves, removing the rocks that block the tunnel.”
“Are there guards?”
“Two.”
In a quick movement I discarded the knife and slipped my arm behind his neck, pressing my hand into his right temple. I twisted his head and held him like that for many seconds. He kicked once and then lay still. A classic sleeper hold. He should be out for a few minutes. Next, I found some rags and tied his hands and feet together. I shoved another rag in his mouth, and (ever the soft-hearted fool) checked his breathing. He seemed to be doing okay.
I grabbed the AK-47 and the bottle of vodka and slipped out into the night.
Chapter Twenty-eight
We peered down onto a small tunnel opening from a rocky escarpment thirty feet away. Snow fell sporadically around us, fluttering like tiny white butterflies. Two guards were posted just inside the tunnel’s entrance. A small fire illuminated the opening, highlighting the dark granite walls. The guards sat on folding chairs. Between them was a rickety table. They were playing cards and smoking and totally oblivious to us.
Near the entrance, off to the side, was a narrow finger of rock jutting up through the ice. The rock appeared to have been recently excavated from a drift of snow. Indeed, it looked more like an arthritic finger pointing accusingly into the sky.
Son of a bitch, I thought. The marker.
Faye grabbed my arm and pointed to the stone marker. “That’s the marker, Sam. The finger of rock. It must have been hidden in ice all this time. This is the cave. My father is here. I know it.”
As I studied the entrance, I saw myself holding my dead fiancé, the side of her head cracked open and bleeding. I saw myself burying her with my own hands. In a cave. In this cave.