by JT Osbourne
"I had to wait. To be sure. It would have been suspicious."
Brook considered that. "If it's the tomb," she said, back to business, "we'll need a hundred workers, permits, radar maybe. We might need to go forty feet down, and shore it up as we go. That takes architects, structural engineers."
"I know, I know. I promise, if we find a crypt, evidence of walls, or the makings of a pyramid, we'll call in the troops and do it all proper, no matter how much I hate sharing this with Strelov and his Neanderthals. But not till we're sure. We'll do it this way first. Then..." Ali shrugged.
Brook had never seen him cuter. "I never knew you were such a sneak," she jibed, a smile on her face.
"Oh, you don't know the half of it!" Ali teased back, pulling Brook's hat off and tousling her thick red hair like a little sister.
"Hey, cut that out," Brook protested, flailing her arms, trying to grab her hat back, Ali kept it right out of reach. "I mean it!"
Laughing, he put the hat back on her head and pointed down the trench. "It's covered with wood, and just a dusting of sand on top to keep it hidden," Ali told her, "but it could still cave in from the sides, so we'll go old school with a rope and spotter until we can get more lumber in there. I'd recommend the east wall to begin with. Eventually we'll do the whole area if anything looks promising. You got your phone on you?"
Brook showed him.
"Okay," Ali said. "There seems to be reception down there, I think—the mysteries of technology. Wait here."
Brook watched as Ali found a rope and recruited Tom to do the spotting. Brook didn't care for the idea, but he was the largest and strongest of them all, the logical choice. He hopped down into the hole and seemed to know just what to do, tying an impressive knot around Brook's waist. They traded phone numbers, and confirmed they could communicate.
"Why don't I go in?" Tom suggested, wary.
"Ladies first," Brook told him, scrambling down the hole before there could be any more discussion. If something happened, Tom would need to either pull Brook out or follow the rope and dig if that wasn't possible. Since the trench was only four feet below the surface, Brook wasn't too worried, though even at that depth a sudden cave-in would bury a crawling figure alive, with no escape possible.
If Brook thought about it too much, she'd probably panic. Despite her chosen profession, there was more than a hint of claustrophobia running through her psyche. She'd talked to a psychologist about it once, just casually, and they'd suggested an explanation:
"Maybe you're an archaeologist because you’re afraid for the people buried in small spaces. Maybe you want to rescue them, save them from the terror you think they feel, because it's what you would feel. You'd want someone to rescue you." Brook kept crawling. She knew where that led—dear old Dad. Brook was trapped in a tiny space waiting for Dad to come home and rescue her.
"Okay, made it," Brook said aloud, reaching the end of the trench. She tugged once on the rope and got one tug back. Two tugs meant either "I'm done" or "you're done," depending on which end originated it. Five tugs was an emergency—"Get me outta here!"—Brook knew the entire range of standard commercial diving signals, Royal Navy rope signals, and those used by US Marines, but for this purpose she decided to keep it simple. If it weren't for the secrecy, they could remove the plywood overhead and shore up the sides of the trench properly. But the rope would probably still be a good idea.
Brook tapped her pick along one edge, gently—who knew what was imbedded in there? "Friends, Romans, countrymen..." she whispered, "Lend me your ears..."
38
Morgantown, WV
From Professor Green hurried into his office to pick up the ringing phone. "Yes?" he gasped.
"It's Lucia," was the answer.
"Lucia," Green answered, sitting down, stalling. He needed to catch his breath.
"I've got some information for you."
"Good, good," Green managed.
"Are you okay, Stuart?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not getting old, are you?" Lucia teased.
"Not a bit," Green declared. He felt ancient. "What is the news? The stone-mason?"
"That's right. There's a fragment of something in storage here at one of the National Museum buildings. It's only a fragment, but the name Neferu is there on the bottom.”
"That's incredible," Professor Green said.
"That's exactly what I said. But don't get your hopes up—it's just a chunk of stone at this point, I'm afraid. The soldiers used it for target practice, I think. The museum is sending me pictures. You want me to go look at it?"
"I don't think that's necessary..."
"Here's the good part. The thing was tagged with the coordinates of where it was found. Both longitude and latitude."
"Oh, that's good!" Professor Green beamed, grabbing a pen and quickly finding paper. "Can you give them to me?"
"Here goes," Lucia answered.
***
It was amazing how similar the Roman battle graveyard was to the one from World War II just a hundred yards away. In just one morning, Brook had found a broken sword, a javelin head, and a dagger. A shield wouldn't be too far away, she was certain. A coat of mail might also have survived, as well as a bow and several arrows. Excited by the discovery, and aware that this find might take her just that much closer to Cleopatra, Brook dug frantically, piling the loot next to her in the tunnel.
Tom tugged twice on the rope at the other end of the trench. It was the signal for "come in."
Brook sighed and packed up her tools. There was no option—she'd have to crawl back, but she’d be cursing the whole time. They should have come up with something more sophisticated than the rope. There was no way to ask, "why?"
On a hunch, Brook pulled on the rope two quick ones, two long pulls, two quick ones—Morse code for a question mark. The rope reply came back quickly; "lunch." Of course Tom knew Morse code—he probably had the merit badge to prove it. Could Heimlich you, too, no doubt, after giving you brain surgery.
"Lunch!" she heard Tom yell down the shaft, which made Brook laugh.
"I heard you the first time!" she shouted back. Her lamp was going low anyway. "Be right there."
***
As Green looked up the coordinates, it occurred to him to call Emily in the art department, but he decided against it. She would call as soon as she knew anything, he figured. He wondered about all the women in his life. He had no male friends; he'd never had any male friends. Was that strange? He’d stopped wondering "What's wrong with me?" a long time before, but now all that doubt was coming back. Sometimes he felt like a gawky seventh-grader again.
Green found the coordinates on a map. He picked up the phone.
"Yes?" Brook answered at the other end.
"It’s Stuart Green."
For just a second, Brook had trouble placing the name, and the voice. Had he ever told her his first name? Ever used it?
"Hi, Professor." Brook replied, getting up from the picnic bench where she was eating lunch with the other diggers. She moved away quickly for privacy, pretending it was so as not to interrupt the others' meal.
"I've got something for you, maybe," Green stated modestly, though Brook could feel the excitement in his voice. "Is this a good moment?" Green asked, careful now.
"Yes, yes." Brook checked behind her; she was fifty yards away from prying ears.
"I found a statue," Green whispered nevertheless. "They found a statue, I should say. She. Lucia. A friend of mine. I don't want to take credit," Green paused, trying to get it all straight. "Signed by our guy. Neferu. Brought back by the Italians during the war. I'm e-mailing the coordinates and a map."
"Coordinates?" Brook dared to hope she’d heard him right.
"That's right."
"The place they found the statue?"
"Exactly."
She was suddenly as skittish as he was—"What is the statue?" Brook wanted to know. Something from Cleopatra's tomb?
"I said 'statue' but
that's not right. It's partial; and I’m not sure what it is, except it's signed on the bottom. I'll send you a photo of that, too."
"Professor Green..."
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me," Green answered. "This is what I enjoy." He sounded pathetic, and he knew it. "If there's anything else..."
"Don't worry, I'll call you again."
"Please do."
"Well, thank you again."
"Oh, Brook," Green came back, casually—Are we on a first-name basis now? —"What do you do with that dog of yours when you go away?"
"Saqqara?"
"She's not in a kennel somewhere, is she?"
"No, she's with my brother," Brook told the professor.
"Oh, yes. Your brother." Green knew Carl a little. He was a generous donor to the university, especially the anthropology and archaeology departments. Brook sensed neither Carl nor Green liked the other—male competition, she figured. "Anyway, I'd be happy, anytime..."
He trailed off, finding it hard to finish: I could use the company.
"Yes, absolutely," Brook told the professor. "You and Saqqara..."
Brook couldn't finish, either: The dog likes you even if I don't.
"Maybe next time?" Professor Green said.
"Yeah, maybe."
"I’d have her anytime."
"You should get a dog."
"No. That would be..." Green trailed off again, giving no reason. "How's the dig going?" he asked, pivoting like a politician.
"Turning very interesting," Brook came back. "Very interesting."
"Well, keep me posted," Green replied, ending the conversation. He sensed Brook didn't want to elaborate.
"I will."
Brook hung up, and returned to lunch. She ate slowly and quietly, Professor Green on her mind. Brook had no idea what to say to him. Was he asking for human kindness, empathy, a nod-and-good evening connection of the type the elder professor had always treated with contempt in the past, whether from her or every other person he came in contact with?
Feeling guilty, she put him aside, and contemplated her next move. She was interrupted almost immediately by Katy chattering on her phone in Russian in a rising volume of anger and frustration. To Brook's annoyance, Tom was eavesdropping; understanding every word.
"She's not getting anywhere," Tom translated to Brook.
"No?"
"They're telling her they can't do something”
"You speak Russian?" Brook asked.
"Some," Tom smiled. "I was stationed there."
"Stationed? Like a soldier?"
"No, no," Tom said, "My company, an investment firm. We have an office in Moscow."
"Oh," Brook answered. Tom didn't seem proud of the fact, and Brook found the subject distasteful, too. Working with Strelov was bad enough.
Tom laughed.
"What?"
"Your face," Tom said. "Like you ate something bad."
"That's just my face," Brook told him.
"I get it, and you're right—I had to deal with some awful people over there. Crooks and killers, I'm sure. Money launderers, even. Unfortunately, they are also the pillars of society. We invested their ill-gotten gains for them, and took a fair slice for ourselves. On the other hand, who do you work for?"
"West Virginia University," Brook said defensively, shaking off the accusation.
"Uh-huh," Tom answered. "And where do they get their money?"
Brook didn't answer.
"Foundations like ours," Tom stated. "Maybe even ours itself."
On the phone, Katy kept on arguing, getting nowhere. Brook wondered if she should pick up Katy's camera and film this encounter— it would be the documentary's most dramatic footage to date.
"I know a lot of people in Russia," Tom said, interrupting Brook's thoughts.
"Excuse me?"
"I know some Russians. At the top, or nearby, at least. People who can get anything done that you need doing," Tom nodded to Katy on the phone. Both he and Brook knew failure when they saw it. "I'd be happy to give it a shot," he said sincerely. "Just tell me what you need."
Brook sat up a little taller, as though testing her backbone. She wouldn't undercut her friend like that, but on the other hand those scrolls from St. Mary's could be the key to everything, a real turning point in the investigation, and in Brook's life. She needed a turning point.
"I will feel Katy out tonight," Brook told Tom, relenting.
"I understand," he said.
Brook believed him. Maybe it wasn't all about his ego, she decided, or his boyish attraction to her, or even his romantic fantasies of past civilizations. "If she's sure she isn't getting anywhere, I don't see why you shouldn't try," she told Tom. "Maybe the two of you could even work together on it."
"Maybe," Tom agreed, though both believed that would be unlikely.
When it was time to go back to digging, Brook took Ali aside. "I found some things in the pit," she whispered.
"What?" Ali asked, excitement written all over his face.
"A part of a sword, a javelin head, and a dagger, all Roman. The real deal."
Ali gripped Brook's shoulder tenderly, delighted. "Okay," he said, "I'll get the wheelbarrow over there and get it to the back of the bus."
Whether by design or accident, the portable toilets sat near the school bus used to transport the workers. It wasn't unusual to go over there a few times a day, and someone slipping artifacts through the rear emergency door of the bus would likely go unnoticed.
"Good work," Ali added. "Keep going."
"I'm going to beg off," Brook interrupted, trying to think of an excuse.
"You still don't feel well, do you?" Ali asked.
"No...does it show?"
"You look great, just sit down. Take care of yourself."
Left alone under the shaded canopy with everyone's well-wishes, deep concern, and hydration advice—and only Grekov and Rabbit's eyes on her from a short distance—Brook quickly jumped on the internet to try to make sense of Professor Green's information. The crumbling stone slab at the Rome museum didn't look like much. It had been found and brought to Italy by soldiers in June 1941. No names were given—Brook suspected deserters hoping to cash it in for money or a lighter sentence. She made a note to find those names; perhaps they took other souvenirs as well. She didn't judge.
"Archaeology is just thievery," Brook's father had told her. "Stealing from one country's ground and taking it to another country's museum."
The issue wasn't that straightforward, Brook had come to believe over the years. The great treasures of civilization didn't rightfully belong to the great museums of Europe, but on the other hand, the nations of the Middle East hadn't shown themselves to be reliable caretakers either. Grave-robbers were a constant problem, and who could blame a father or son for doing what he could to keep his family alive? And then there were those few misguided jihadists, operating under the guise of “the name of Islam” who wanted to smash every object, every statue, and every priceless work of art, after burning each papyrus to ashes. Fortunately, most true followers of the Prophet abhorred this senseless destruction.
As bad as the Italian soldiers might have been, the best thing they did was to document the location! It wasn't far from where Brook sat, in a southwesterly direction, but in desert miles, it could be several days on camel-back. Brook pinpointed it on a map. It was right there where the inland sea would have been, and where the whale graveyard had been well-studied. If she was right, the Roman tomb they were digging around in was in fact the final resting place of the lost patrol, its members killed by enemies, mother nature, disease, or the wrath of the gods—who knew? After having set off in the wrong direction, using a traveled road, the Romans had been crushed by something. They'd only been five degrees off, really, but after some distance, they drifted further and further from the mark.
Brook searched the map. The closest settlement on any map to the Neferu's slab of stone was called Jaghbub,
in Libya.
39
Alexandria, Egypt
"Can I buy you a drink?" Brook asked Katy when they got back to the hotel that evening.
Katy seemed flustered by the question. She looked over to Ali.
"If you're not busy," Brook backtracked.
Katy held up a finger and went to talk to Ali, who was just getting out of the other vehicle, passing Tom on his way to talk to Brook.
"Can I buy you a drink?" Tom asked when he got to her.
Brook laughed at the inadvertent plagiarism.
"Dinner?" Tom tried.
"I don't know yet," Brook said. "I need to talk to Katy first."
"Of course. Right."
"Maybe after."
"Should I call you?" Tom asked.
"I'll call you."
"Okay. You have my number. Just tug on that rope."
Brook smiled. He really was good-looking, smart, and eager. A nice guy probably. He ambled away and Brook remembered to breathe again.
"Okay, let's get that drink!" Katy told Brook, pulling her into the hotel. "But my treat. And my place."
***
"Should I turn the camera on?" Katy asked when they were comfortably seated in Katy's room, martinis in hand. To Brook's surprise, Katy was well-supplied with a serious alcohol collection—they had no need of the mini-bar.
"The boys sometimes come by late at night to shoot the breeze,” Katy explained.
"The boys?"
"Grekov and Rabbit."
"Eeeuh," Brook groaned.
"They're really very nice when they're not manhandling you."
"Excuse me?"
"Checking for weapons—you know," Katy laughed, reddening.
"Uh-huh."
"Lonely as hell and away from home, that's all," Katy said.
"Yeah? You or them?" Brook teased.
"Them," Katy laughed, "their home being a hole under a rock with the other snakes.”
Brook smiled.
"They're helping me with my Russian," Katy insisted. "So…?" she added, after the unsaid "what's this meeting about?" had been hanging in the air awhile.