by Lynn Sholes
Sinclair punched the blinking button. He wouldn’t take this call on the speakerphone. “This is Sinclair.” The hiss of the connection annoyed him as he pressed the receiver firmly to his ear.
“We uncovered the entrance to the crypt two days ago,” the man on the other end said. “Late this afternoon, it was opened.”
Sinclair’s knuckles whitened as he clutched the phone. “Ahmed, I hope you have good news.” He paced.
“I do. Everything is just as Archer predicted.”
“What did you find?”
“Many artifacts with the bones,” Ahmed continued. “Armor, religious trinkets, some scrolls, and a box.”
Adrenaline streaked through Sinclair’s body making his fingertips tingle. “What does the box look like?”
“Black, no markings, about fifteen centimeters square.”
Perspiration softened the starch in the white collar of Sinclair’s Armani shirt. Static filled the pause before he spoke again. “And its contents?”
“I do not know.”
“What do you mean? You were there, weren’t you?”
“Archer did not open it. He and the others are packing to leave as we speak. We must abandon the site—the area is becoming too dangerous. Everyone is nervous. There is no time to examine—”
“No!” Sinclair pinched the bridge of his nose. “You go back immediately and get the box. Have Archer show you how to open it. Call me as soon as you confirm what’s inside and you have it securely in your possession. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Ahmed’s voice sank into the static.
“Ahmed,” he said, keeping his voice low and controlled, “it is imperative that you complete your assignment. I cannot stress that enough.”
“I understand.”
Sinclair hung up the phone and stared at the receiver. The Arab could not even begin to understand.
the crypt
Suddenly, the sound of an approaching vehicle caught Cotten’s attention. Headlights danced in the distance along the uneven highway. At last, she thought. But what if it was Iraqi soldiers? She backed onto the sandy shoulder, her heart thumping up into her throat. Finally, when it was close enough, she guessed from the lights on the cab and trailer that it was a fuel tanker. She took a few steps forward, waving her arms, but the vehicle didn’t slow. Shielding her eyes from the sand and gravel thrown up as the truck roared past, Cotten watched it disappear as quickly as it had appeared.
It probably wasn’t wise to hail a ride anyway. No telling what frame of mind any Iraqi would be in at this point. She’d be safer keeping out of sight and making as much distance as possible before daylight.
After an hour of walking, Cotten plopped her bags down and sat on one. Her arms ached from the weight of the carryalls, and she shuddered as the cold penetrated her heavy parka. When she got back to the States, she was going to Florida for a long overdue thawing out. That was a promise.
Cotten emptied one of the bags, taking out anything she could leave behind. As she sorted through her belongings, she wondered if coming to Iraq had been smart. Maybe she’d made a stupid decision. She hadn’t stopped to analyze everything, and then when Casselman protested, she got one of those dog-with-a-bone attitudes. There were other assignments she could have taken—ones of equal importance, ones that would have distanced her from Thornton.
“Damn, damn, damn,” she said as she retrieved only the essentials: wallet, passport, and press credentials along with her still camera, lenses, film, and the plastic film container that hid her emergency money. She stuffed them in the other bag with the videocassettes. After taking one last look over her shoulder at the small pile of belongings left behind, she trudged on.
The moon rose and painted the desert with enough light to keep her from losing sight of the road. She wished for her sofa and comforter, a hot cup of Starbucks or better yet, a smooth Absolut over ice.
Suddenly, she stopped and blinked, making sure what she saw was not a mirage. There were lights in the distance. Not from vehicles, but from some kind of settlement or camp with electricity. She set the bag down and rubbed her shoulder and arm to get the circulation back. Taking out her camera, she attached the telephoto lens and brought the lights into focus. If it was an encampment of the Republican Guard or even the Iraqi regulars, an American woman traveling alone would stand little chance. Some of her colleagues in Baghdad had told her stories of the brutality, rapes . . . men who behaved like animals, like feral dogs.
She panned across the site. There were no obvious weapons, army vehicles, or anything that resembled a military installation. It looked more like an excavation site. Buckets, temporary tents, tables, spoil piles. An archaeological dig? Cotten guessed she was somewhere near one of the ancient Assyrian ruins scattered throughout the region. Several old trucks were grouped near a crumbling stone structure. A handful of men moved in a flurry of activity.
This might be her opportunity to catch a safe ride to the border, she thought. She hesitated, wondering if she should take the chance. Finally she stowed the camera and headed for the lights.
Near the site, she saw men scrambling about, loading equipment and crates onto the trucks. The sporadic confrontations between the Iraqi military and the increasingly brazen, U.S.-backed Kurdish rebels had probably made the area become too dangerous for an archaeological dig.
She strained to hear their voices. Turkish! Not Iraqi. Relieved, Cotten entered the camp and approached one of the men. “Excuse me,” she said.
He wore a dark shirt ringed with sweat under the arms. The stench from his body was sharp in the cold air. He glared at her for a moment as if wondering where she came from. “No English,” he said, taking a crate from a wheelbarrow and throwing it onto the bed of the truck. If she hadn’t leaned back, he would have swiped her with it.
Cotten tried to stop another man who sidestepped her and gave her an annoyed glance.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she spun around. A short, stumpy man stood close.
“American?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Turk,” he said, and smiled, revealing a mouth filled with crooked brown teeth beneath a mustache that hung over his lip like an awning.
“I need a ride,” she said, pointing north.
He twitched his head toward the ruins. “Go see Dr. Archer, Gabriel Archer.”
Someone shouted and, with a polite nod, the Turk hurried away.
A small group boarded one of the trucks. The engine coughed to life, and the truck pulled onto the road. There were still two trucks left, but they were quickly being loaded. Not much time to find this Dr. Archer and beg for a lift.
In the moonlight, she located the entrance to the stone structure. Wooden scaffolding shored up the walls and, as she entered, she ducked beneath a low archway. Just ahead, a string of bare lightbulbs dangled over the entrance and along a passageway beyond. She followed the passage until it ended at a set of steps leading underground. Buckets of dirt were stacked nearby, waiting to be hauled outside and emptied into screens. A gas generator rattled, powering the string of lights running into the hole. She leaned over the head of the steps and called out. “Hello . . . Archer?” There was no response. “Dr. Archer?” she called louder.
In the distance she heard the throaty diesel of another truck start up and pull out. Only one left.
Cotten started down the stairs. The icy air smelled old like a mausoleum. She’d only been in one, but that distinct mustiness, the dank odor of soil and rock, couldn’t be forgotten. Even though she’d been a child at the time, she remembered her father’s funeral: the sickeningly sweet scent of flowers, the strange acidic odor of chemicals, and the cold, stony smell of the burial vault.
The steps ended in a small room. She crossed it and peered through a short tunnel leading into an expansive chamber. There she saw two men. One was slightly hunched o
ver and gray-haired, dressed in a dusty khaki shirt and faded jeans. He must be Archer, she thought, because the other man had the swarthy skin and garb of an Arab.
She squeezed through the narrow shaft.
Archer stood next to what Cotten thought was a crypt in the far wall of the chamber. She caught a glimpse of brown bones and a glint of metal. He held open a small box at which both men stared intently.
Cotten opened her mouth to call out.
Suddenly, the Arab pulled a gun from under his robe. Cotten froze as the man pointed the pistol at Archer. “Give it to me!” he demanded.
Archer closed the lid and took a step backward, keeping a firm grip on the box. His eyes widened, his face turned skeleton white. “You’re one of them.”
Cotten pressed back against a loose support timber. It shifted, and a small avalanche of pebbles and sand spilled to the ground.
The men turned at the sound and for an instant looked at her.
Archer dropped the box and grappled for the gun. He slammed into the man, and they tumbled to the dirt floor.
The Arab shoved the gun barrel against the archaeologist’s head. Archer thrust up an elbow, redirecting the aim of the weapon just as it discharged. The blast was deafening in the hard-walled chamber.
The Arab straddled Archer, forcing the gun into the old man’s cheekbone. With a loud grunt, Archer kicked his knee up, driving the Arab forward and ramming his head into the wall. Dazed, the man let up for an instant, and Archer scrambled out from under him. The Arab lifted the pistol, took aim, and Archer dove for it, crashing down hard on his opponent.
The gun wedged between them.
A second shot pealed, but their bodies muffled this one.
Cotten held her breath as both men lay motionless. The chamber fell silent except for the sound of her blood pulsing in her ears and the thudding of her heart against her ribs.
Then, finally, Archer moved, slowly rolling off the Arab. A red blotch stained the front of his shirt. More blood seeped from the Arab’s chest.
Archer struggled to his feet and stood over the dead man. His chest heaved and labored as he wiped his face on his sleeve. He picked up the box, his tree-knot knuckles blanching as he clutched it.
He coughed and straightened, eyes fixing on Cotten. He squinted, staggering a few steps before slumping to the ground. “My heart,” he said, grabbing his chest.
Cotten dropped her bag and moved cautiously, checking behind her. She stared at the body of the Arab as she stepped past him.
“What can I do?” she asked, kneeling next to Archer. “I’ll go get help.”
“No.” Archer reached for her hand. A cough wracked him, and Cotten elevated his head in her lap.
“The box,” he said. “Take it.” He looked over at the dead man. “They will stop at nothing now.”
“Who? What do you mean?”
His face twisted with a wave of pain. Hands shaking, he pushed the box toward her. His skin paled, his lips darkened. “You must not let them have it.”
“What is this?” she asked.
His voice was weak, not much more than a whisper. “Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, Matthew.”
“I don’t understand.”
He didn’t answer, appearing to stare straight through her. Then Archer motioned her closer, and she leaned in to hear as he whispered.
She shook her head in confusion. “Please, you aren’t making any sense. You want me to stop the sun . . . the dawn?”
He seemed to rally, lifting his head, his voice suddenly strong as he spoke. “Geh el crip.”
Cotten reeled. He couldn’t have said what she thought she heard. It was impossible. Impossible. Archer had spoken a language she hadn’t heard since she was a child. Only one other person had ever spoken to her in that language—her twin sister.
Her dead twin sister.
homecoming
“How could you know those words?” Cotten asked, her voice shaky.
But Archer’s eyes were already closed. His grip loosened, and his head slowly fell back, chest still.
Archer was dead.
The string of bulbs blinked, and then went dark. The generator must have run out of fuel, she guessed. Carefully, she moved Archer’s head from her lap. She couldn’t help him now, and with only one truck left, there was no time to waste.
Afraid she might trip over debris, she tucked the box under her arm and crawled through the blackness in what she hoped was the direction of the tunnel. Suddenly, the earth shook and the walls quaked. Cotten curled over her knees and shielded her head, waiting for the ceiling to collapse. Dust and sand filtered down, collecting in her hair and on the backs of her hands. Small stones pummeled her back. Had bombs dropped somewhere close?
The rumble subsided, and she continued crawling. Her bag wasn’t that far away, but moving in the pitch-black room was slow going. As her hand touched the floor, she recoiled.
The Arab’s blood.
Cotten cringed and wiped the blood off her hand on the dead man’s pants leg. When she reached the wall she felt her way to the tunnel opening where she had left her bag. Her fingers groped through the nylon carryall until she found her penlight.
The bulb flickered when she twisted the tip and then died. “Come on!” she said, shaking it. It glowed again, but the light was little better than none at all.
Holding the penlight in her mouth, Cotten dumped some of the tapes and other articles onto the dirt floor and placed Archer’s box inside the bag. As she repacked, the light died again. She swept her hand across the floor for anything she might have missed.
A second rumble rocked the chamber, followed by a third and a fourth. It was a distinct clap, one she recognized from when she’d done a piece on high tech Air Force ordinance: sonic booms from fighters breaking the sound barrier.
“Archer.” A man called from the direction of the passage. “We can wait no longer.” There was a pause. “Do you hear me, Archer? We go now!”
“Wait,” Cotten cried, zipping up the bag and scrambling to her feet.
She stumbled through the dark until she finally reached the passageway. A truck engine growled to life and pulled onto the highway as she emerged from the ruins.
“Stop!” she yelled running toward it.
The Turk stood up in the back of the vehicle and waved Cotten on. When she was close enough, she swung her bag up. The Turk grabbed it, then reached out and yanked her up into the truck.
“You run fast,” he said.
She gave a nervous laugh as she sank down, breathing hard.
“Where is Archer?” he asked, his voice faltering from the rough ride.
The canvas partially covering the sides of the stake body truck flapped, beating against the wood frame, and the motor grumbled, making it hard to hear.
“Dead. Heart attack.” Cotten pointed to her chest.
The Turk shook his head and translated the news to the handful of men riding with them.
Jets roared in the darkness overhead and two pinpoints of orange light shot up along the horizon. She watched with dread, waiting for the missiles to find what she assumed were American fighters. But there were no impacts. The missiles drifted over the desert and burned out like shooting stars.
As the truck rolled north toward the Turkish border, Cotten crouched in a corner, her arms wrapped around her legs. She tried to make sense of what had happened back in the crypt—one man willing to murder a second for a box whose contents were unknown to her. Then the strange ramblings of a dying old man whom she would have thought delirious if not for one thing. He spoke to her in a language known only to Cotten and her twin sister—a sister who had died at birth.
* * *
Chaotic shouts jarred her awake. The Arabian sun, already high in the morning sky, blinded her as she sat up in the bed of the transport truck. Like sw
arming ants, the Turkish dig team clambered out the back. Cotten pulled herself up to look around.
Throngs of people lined the highway, marching across the rolling hills and out of the surrounding mountains. Refugees, she thought, fleeing before the war began. Women, clasping infants to their breasts and clinging to the hands of their other children, swept past the truck like the incoming tide. Cotten looked into their dazed faces. That was what Americans needed to see.
She grabbed her carryall and climbed down to the asphalt. Coming around the side of the truck, she saw more vehicles lined up, their engines silent, their beds and cabs empty. She realized they had finally reached the Turkish border, probably near Zakhu. A large Constantine wire fence stretched across the terrain, and the highway passed through a narrow checkpoint with barriers of tanks and armored personnel carriers. Hundreds of Turkish soldiers, all holding automatic weapons, herded the refugees into a bottleneck for quick inspections and document checks before letting them through.
Cotten hugged her carryall to her chest as she let the tide steer her closer to the checkpoint. When there were only a few ahead of her, she dug into her bag and pulled out her passport and press credentials.
“American press,” she shouted, holding the documents up. “American press.” As soon as she could get through the checkpoint, she’d stop and take some still shots of this scene. Black and white—powerful close-ups of faces, the wide dark eyes of the children, of mother’s hands holding smaller hands. She could already envision them inter-cut into her video edit. No music, no voiceover. Just the stark frozen faces of despair and fear. It would be a brilliant, moving ending. No one would be able to watch and not get chills.
A young Turkish soldier saw her and waved his arm. “Come on, American. This way.” He grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her across the border into Turkey.
“Thank you,” she said, but he was already inspecting the documents of the next in line.
Suddenly, another soldier took hold of her arm and pulled her aside.
“Papers!” said the Turkish officer.