by J. R. Rain
Faye asked, “Sam, are you okay?”
I took a deep shuddering breath, and when I spoke again my voice didn’t sound my own. It sounded like someone much older and far too tired. “No, I’m not okay.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I know this cave,” I said.
Although I wasn’t looking at Faye, I could feel her eyes on me. She had heard the pain in my voice and asked softly, “How do you know this cave, Sam?”
“Because it doubles as a tomb,” I said. “I buried my fiancé here.”
* * *
We were quiet. I studied the soldiers and the cave opening. I was pretty sure I could make out their semi-automatics leaning against the cave walls, along with other supplies, such as backpacks and flashlights. I gripped my own AK-47. One guard suddenly threw his head back and guffawed, slapping his knee. The other tossed his handful of cards disgustedly onto the table and lit another cigarette, the flare briefly illuminating his sharp chin and nose and cupped hand.
I said to Faye, “We don’t have much time.”
I wanted a cigarette. I wanted Liz. I wanted Faye. I took a deep shuddering breath and rolled over onto my back and felt the ice crunch between my shoulders. I looked up into the night and watched the snow blow across my face. I closed my eyes and felt each freezing fleck on my skin. “This is going to be a long night,” I whispered.
* * *
I stepped out of the shadows and into the ring of firelight. I held the AK-47 loosely at my side. The two guards didn’t see me at first. The glow from their fire cast my shadow behind me as I stood there. The warmth was nice on my face and hands. The soldiers were young, although one was clearly older than the other. A cigarette hung from the older one’s lower lip. Both wore military green jackets with hoods on, their weapons too far away to do them any good. I cleared my throat.
They jumped comically, cards flying from their hands. Instinctively, they reached for their weapons. In Arabic, I told them that wasn’t a good idea. The young one didn’t listen and continued to move toward his AK-47, fingers out-stretched. I threw back the bolt of my weapon, the metallic sound echoing in the tunnel. The soldier froze. Slowly, both sets of dark eyes turned toward me. I nodded to them, ever the kind stranger.
“Good evening, gentleman,” I said.
They said nothing, perhaps too shocked for words. Two of their playing cards ended up in the fire. They turned black and curled into nothing.
“Sorry about the intrusion,” I said in Arabic. “But I believe you have something I want.”
The oldest was in his early twenties. Thick beard. Crooked nose. He regained some of his composure and eyed me coolly. “What would that be?”
“You’re going to lead me to the old man and his student.”
And then I told them to put their hands behind their heads and turn around, in that order. The youngest did as he was told, but the older continued to stare at me, perhaps considering testing me. My finger tightened on the trigger. Finally he turned.
“A wise decision,” I said. I called Faye over and she trotted boldly from the shadows. She had a look of expectation on her face, for she knew her father may be just around the corner. I gave the order, and the four us promptly marched into the tunnel.
Chapter Twenty-nine
As we made our way around a slight bend in the tunnel, and as the light from the fire slowly faded into the background, we were forced to use the soldiers’ flashlights. The tunnel was high enough to walk through without ducking. The jagged granite walls were coated with lichen, which grew in clumps and seemed to emit a soft green light, although that could have been my imagination. The tunnel angled to the right and up. Sand muffled the sounds of our boots. The ceiling was cloaked in stygian darkness, and as we moved deeper within the tunnel, the temperature began to rise.
“It’s getting warm,” said Faye, loosening her collar.
“As a rule of thumb,” I said, “the temperature rises five degrees for every one hundred yards in most subterranean tunnels.”
Suddenly, the older sentry dropped a hand to his waist and removed an object from his hip, and started to turn, all in a blink of eye. But I was waiting for this one to try something, and so I moved quickly, smashing the stock of the rifle between his shoulder blades, knocking him forward into the sand. He got up slowly and turned, gasping for breath. I leveled the weapon at his chest.
I had knocked the wind and snot out of him, judging by the gleaming spittle on his thick beard. Glinting dully near his feet was a small knife. I stepped over and kicked it away, and the black-handled blade scuttled over the sand and hit the far wall with a clang.
I turned to the younger one. His hands shook over his head. “Is your friend always this stupid?” I asked, but the kid didn’t answer. Asking the kid’s name, rank and serial number would have gotten the same results: nothing.
I turned back to the older soldier. “Raise your hands up high. Good boy.”
Then I stepped over and punched him solid in the face, and his head snapped back and he stumbled against the granite wall. It had been a good punch, splitting his cheek and hurting my hand. He wanted to fall, or at least slide down to his rear end, but pure hatred and stubbornness kept him on his feet. He would be a good soldier. “You challenge me again, and you die,” I said. “Do you understand?”
Slowly, probably when the stars stopped flashing in his head, he nodded.
“Good,” I said. “Now get moving.”
I gave him a moment to find his feet, and then he stumbled forward, hands still in the air. I told the younger soldier to walk next to me. He was crying silently, tears glistening in the dark corners of his eyes.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Harim.”
“How old are you, Harim?”
“Fifteen.”
“Why are you not in school?” I asked.
He stared at the weapon in my hand, then finally looked up at me. “I have never gone to school,” he said.
I nodded. In Turkey, boys and girls in most rural villages did not to attend school; instead, they worked at home with their families. “Which village are you from, Harim?” I asked.
“Arsuz,” he said. And amazingly, he mustered enough courage to say it proudly.
I knew of the village. It was on the southern coast of Turkey and even doubled as a minor resort area for the wealthy. Most citizens of Arsuz, and other such cities along the southern coast, were either dirt poor or in employment to the wealthy.
“Beautiful place,” I said.
He nodded eagerly.
“Do you miss your home?” I asked, correctly reading the longing in his eyes.
He shrugged nonchalantly, some of the soldier still in him. “I guess.”
“You are not a soldier, Harim” I stated. “So why did you become one?”
If he took any offense to my hasty conclusion, he didn’t show it. “My brother is a soldier. Father is very proud of him.”
I nodded, understanding. “A father’s approval means much, perhaps too much,” I said. “You do not belong here.”
I told him to put his arms down. I slipped back and walked next to Faye as the tunnel turned sharply and we suddenly stepped into a dimly lit cave. The remains of a fire smoldered in the center of the cave. Around the fire were two sleeping forms, covered in blankets, their features indistinguishable from this distance. Farther back was a massive wall of rocks, blocking further access into the cave, the result of a previous cave-in. To the right was a small mound of dirt that marked Liz’s grave. To my great relief, the mound was undisturbed. To the left was a moderate pile of scattered rocks that had been removed from the lower section of the wall of rocks.
“What are they doing here?” I asked Harim.
“They remove the rocks, to clear a way through the wall.”
I nodded, then raised my voice: “Rise and shine, sleepy-heads.”
From the center of the camp, two heads rose from the dirt floor. Both men had bee
n sleeping on their arms, in rather crude fashion. One of them was an older man with a thin face and frazzled gray hair. Faye shrieked with joy and sprinted across the cave.
Chapter Thirty
Her father was about what I had expected. A man in his late fifties. Gray hair worn long over his collar, parted down the middle and slightly mussed from sleep. He looked like Einstein, if Einstein had bothered to use a comb. He was dressed in dirty jeans and a dirty flannel shirt, and smelled like a stray dog. But that didn’t stop Faye from wrapping her arms around the startled man, who was fumbling around with one hand near his blanket until he found a pair of wire-rim glasses, cracked in one corner. He hastily put them on, completing the look of the eccentric professor.
Wally Krispin was sitting cross-legged, knees as sharp as arrows, next to the glowing bed of coals. The student’s narrow face was criss-crossed with red lines, the result of sleeping on the sleeve of his jacket. His thick brown hair was wildly disheveled, and he appeared malnutritioned—in fact both of them did. And depending on how long they had been held in captivity, that just might be a possibility. I could see that both Caesar’s and Wally’s fingertips were cracked with scabs. Neither seemed concerned that I was holding a very deadly weapon at the ready.
“My darling Faye,” said professor Caesar Roberts, wrapping both arms around his daughter. His voice was groggy and frog-like, a combination of sleep and cold-like symptoms.
Faye said nothing. She held on tight and I could see that she was crying pretty hard. I kept quiet, although I was feeling the strong urge to get everyone moving, as our time was quickly running out. Harim seemed to be watching with interest, perhaps visualizing his own homecoming.
Wally was saying over and over that he could not believe Faye was here. But no one seemed to be listening to Wally accept me. The kid’s voice was surprisingly soft-spoken. He was either shy or polite. I couldn’t decide which.
Faye pulled away and nodded toward me. “Father, this is Sam Ward. He helped me find you.”
Caesar Roberts looked at me, confused eyes flicking to the weapon. He turned back to his daughter. “Find me?” he asked, perplexed. “Whatever do you mean?”
Faye blinked, then looked at me for support. I shrugged in a supportive way. She said, “Yes, father, find you. You’ve been missing for a month.”
He shook his head. A jolly grin spread across his face. It was hard not to like the old guy. “I haven’t been missing,” he said, laughing. “I’ve been right here.”
I said, “Technically, the man has a point.”
“You’re not helping, Sam Ward,” she said, ice in her voice. She looked at her father. “You’re being held prisoner, dad. Forced to work like slaves.”
“No, my dear. This is a partnership, of sorts. The emir and myself are helping one another. He provides food and supplies and Wally and I provide the labor. This is the cave, Faye. This is the cave on the map!” He clapped his hands excitedly.
“Father, this is crazy. There are guards outside the cave. You are not permitted to leave—ever!”
Caesar shook his head. “The guards are to keep people out, my dear. This is a very important operation. Much is at stake.”
As he spoke, I looked at Wally Krispin. He was frowning and playing with something in his hand, turning it over and over. It was something small and plastic-like. On closer inspection, I could see that it was a baseball card, sheathed protectively in hard plastic, held together by copper screws on each corner. The player on the card could have been a young Mickey Mantle, a baseball bat resting on one shoulder. Wally held the card tight, rubbing a thumb over the plastic as if it were a talisman. Although the kid wasn’t voicing his opinion, he did not appear agreeable to his professor’s position.
“Valuable card,” I said, stepping closer to have a look.
He looked up at me. Dirt was in his hair, in the corners of his eyes. “I collect them,” he said. “But this is my favorite. 1951 Mickey Mantle rookie card. My good luck charm. It’s kept me alive so far.”
I looked at my watch for no real reason. It seemed the thing to do. “Kids,” I said. “We should be leaving very soon.”
“Father, the Arab and his men will be here at any moment. We must leave now.”
“I have no intention of leaving, my dear. We are close, so very close to the ark.”
Faye’s jaw dropped. I looked at Harim. He was watching with wide eyes and a grin on his face. I was pretty sure he didn’t understand a single word. The older one shuffled his feet impatiently, keeping his hands high in the air like a good little soldier.
I spoke up, as this was getting out of hand. “Your daughter speaks the truth, Professor Roberts. Emir Omar Ali is a killer. When he’s done using you, I predict you will meet an unfortunate end on the wrong side of a cliff.”
Caesar was shaking his head. “But he and the little Arabic professor has been so kind to let us—”
Wally cut him off. Although the kid’s voice was soft, it was full of emotion. As he spoke, Wally avoided his professor’s eyes. It was obvious Wally was unaccustomed to speaking out against the older man. “You’re wrong, professor. He has not been kind, and he forces us to work like slaves. And he is going to kill us. I’ve heard the soldiers speaking among themselves.”
“Then why haven’t you said something,” said Caesar.
“I have professor, but you choose not to listen. And what good was it anyway? There was no hope for escape. Until now. The ark is your dream, professor, not mine. I only came for extra credit.” Wally stood. The kid was tall. I almost asked him how the weather was up there. “Please take me with you,” he said to me. “I miss my family.”
I nodded, and looked at Caesar. His confused face was an intricate display of light and shadow.
Suddenly, from behind us, came a tired but familiar voice: “Your student speaks the truth, professor. You would have done well to listen to him. You’re old and foolish, and now useless. And Mr. Ward, will you please toss aside the weapon and raise both your hands over your head.”
Chapter Thirty-one
In a small tent back in Omar’s camp, Faye and I sat opposite each other with our hands cuffed behind our backs. A young Kurdish soldier sat near the tent’s opening, glowering, armed to the teeth. He was doing a helluva good job at looking mean and inhospitable. Just a kid with an automatic rifle and a bad case of acne. The weapon was tucked under his armpit, his index finger resting on the trigger guard. In that position, he could fire almost instantly. I advised Faye not to make any sudden movements.
“So what do you think Omar will do to us?” Faye asked.
“Do you want the sugar-coated version?” I said.
“You mean the one where you blow sunshine up my ass?”
“Yeah, that one.”
She said, “Give it to me straight, Sam.”
“He’s going to kill us.”
She inhaled deeply, chest moving forward and upward, pushing out on her jacket. I tried not to be obvious in my observational skills. She was silent, biting her lower lip. Her cheeks were sunburned to a rosy hue. A single dusty lantern hung from a hook between us, casting the shadow of her nose sharply across her face. She sighed and sat back, closing her eyes. “I think I would have preferred a little sunshine up my ass.” She nodded toward the guard. “Can he understand us?”
I shrugged. “Say nothing incriminating, and try not to comment on his acne.”
“I’ll try to refrain from the obvious,” she said. “Sam, what is Omar doing here?”
“It’s difficult to say offhand. A year ago, I led him and his team onto Mount Ararat. In the evenings, after a full day of searching for the ark, we would drink together in his massive tent, which he made clear was my privilege. One evening, he confided in me that he had an overwhelming desire to make his mark in the world and to distinguish himself from his royal family.”
“What do you mean?” Faye asked.
“An hereditary title proves little of a man’s accomplishments,�
� I said.
“But there are other ways to prove your worth to mankind,” said Faye, perplexed. “He could have been a doctor or work with the homeless—”
“Hardly an avocation of a crown prince, don’t you think? No, he chose to follow in the footsteps of the great explorers and adventures. For instance, three years ago, he attempted to circumnavigate the globe in a hot air balloon, but failed miserably when he crashed into the Pacific Ocean.”
“But that’s been done,” said Faye.
“Exactly. So two years ago, he sought to find Noah’s ark. But that expedition proved fruitless. Last year he hired me, which proved equally fruitless. But now, he is here, a third time, and apparently he means business, arranging for the entire mountain to be closed exclusively for him. Wealth has its privileges.”
Voices came from outside, speaking rapidly in Arabic. Farid Bastian stepped inside the tent, which didn’t leave much room for anything else. Farid dismissed the guard, who left with nary a glance back, taking with him his bad attitude and acne.
“Farid, my friend,” I said. “You’ve come to see us off.”
Snow had settled on his wide shoulders like dandruff. The man hadn’t bothered to wear gloves. He reached out and touched my arm in a surprisingly gentle way. “The emir wishes to speak with you and the lady.” He paused and looked at his hands. “It does not look good for you, my friend. The emir is not himself. He is irrational, and quick to make bad decisions.”
“What are you saying?” I asked. This was the most talkative I had ever heard Farid, who normally stood quietly off to the side, looking big and forbidding, which he did quite well.
“You are a threat to his operation.”
“Then we do not wish to stand in his way,” I said. “We came for the professor and student. Give them to us and we will be gone, and Omar can play his games.”
“It is not that simple,” said Farid quietly, shaking his massive head. He always spoke quietly, but carried a big stick. Hell, he was the big stick. “The game is more complicated than you think, my friend.”