ABANDONED
Nineveh, Northern Iraq
“Get out!” The Iraqi driver’s thin, high-pitched voice filled the car. Sand and dust spewed up as the vehicle skidded to a stop.
Jarred awake, Cotten Stone sat upright. “What?” She tried to focus in the gathering twilight.
“Out! I drive no American.”
The radio blared the frantic-paced voice of an Iraqi announcer.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
The driver threw open his door and ran to the rear of the car.
Cotten tugged the rusty door handle until it finally gave with a squeak. “Hey, what are you doing?” she called, jumping out.
He opened the trunk and tossed her two bags onto the shoulder of the highway.
“You can’t leave me here,” she said, coming around to the back of the car. “This is the middle of the damn desert.”
The driver cocked his head toward the voice on the radio.
She picked up the duffle bag that held her videotapes and chucked it back into the trunk. “Listen, I gave you all the cash I have. I don’t have any more.” She turned her pocket inside out. It was just a little lie. She had squirreled away close to two hundred dollars and stuffed it inside an empty film container. Her emergency stash. “Do you understand? See, no more money. I paid you to take me to the border.”
The driver jabbed her shoulder with a stiff forefinger. “End of ride for American.” He yanked the bag out again and slammed it into her chest, sending her stumbling backward. Then he was around the car and in the driver’s seat, grinding the gears and spinning the old Fiat around.
“I don’t believe this;’ she said. Cotten dropped the bag on the ground beside her other one and threaded a loose strand of tea-colored hair behind her ear, watching the taillights fade.
The soft whisper of the desert wind carried the first chill of the evening as the January sky turned from rose to indigo. Cotten pulled the hooded parka from her carryall and slipped it on, feeling the cold already creeping through her.
She jogged in place, hands stuffed deep in her pockets. Darkness, thick as Iraqi crude, poured over the desert. Someone was bound to come along-had to come along, she thought.
Ten minutes passed with no sign of another vehicle. Finally, she grabbed the handles of her two carryalls and started walking. Gravel and sand crunched like glass chips under her field boots. She glanced behind, wishing for the glow of headlights, but there was only dark, barren desert.
“I should have known better than to trust that guy.” Her voice cracked from the dryness. Whatever he’d heard on the radio must have spooked the shit out of him. Cotten knew U.S. forces were gearing up for an invasion. The rumors had been flying around the foreign press corps. for weeks as the war drums grew louder in Washington and London. It was no secret that there were already small insertion teams of American and British forces in the country. The invasion might still be months away, but it was hard to hide the buildup of forces in the Arab countries bordering Iraq to the south. The local Arab news buzzed with sightings of Special Forces and Army Rangers appearing and disappearing in the middle of the night. There were even strategic flyovers of fighters, Predator drones, and high altitude recon aircraft testing the vulnerabilities of the Iraqi missile and radar installations.
Cotten hoisted the strap higher on her shoulder. “It’s your own fault,” she said. “You’re so damn headstrong.”
A few weeks ago she had stood in the office of SNN’s news director, Ted Casselman, and begged for the assignment to cover the effects of economic sanctions on the women and children of Iraq. It was an important story, she thought, and she didn’t care how unstable the region was. Americans needed to see what sanctions did to innocents. And, she told Casselman, if the U.S. had plans to attack Iraq, she wanted to be there, right smack in the center of the action.
Cotten didn’t mention that she also needed to put some distance between her and Thornton Graham. She didn’t tell Casselman because she knew she would probably fall apart if she had to explain. The emotional wound was still too raw. Her request to do the story made perfect sense as it was-an eager, hungry reporter-and she wanted an assignment that would make world headlines.
The Satellite News Network didn’t send rookies on assignments in such volatile locations, Casselman told her repeatedly. Yes, he conceded, she had talent and promise. Yes, he felt she could manage the pressure. And yes, he agreed that a Middle East assignment right now was a perfect opportunity to launch a successful career. However, not only was she a rookie, she was a woman, and a woman in Iraq in the current conditions was out of the question. Once the war started, the only journalists would be those chosen in advance by the military and embedded with the troops. And they would only be male. The rules were set, and the answer was no.
She became incensed and began a tirade about the unfairness of it all.
Casselman cut her off with another firm, “No.”
After she calmed down, Cotten finally got him to agree to let her tag along with a group of reporters as far as the Turkish border. From there she could cover the plight of any refugees fleeing north once the conflict began.
He was furious when he learned she went on to Baghdad.
Then his call came this morning ordering her to leave. “Things are going to get dicey. Get your sweet ass out of there any way you can. And I want to see you as soon as you get back. Clear?”
She tried to reason with him and buy more time, but he hung up before she could make her case.
When she got home he was going to I-told-you-so, I-should-fireyou her to death. That was if she got home. Cotten shivered. She was stranded and freezing in the middle of the Iraqi desert.
Charles Sinclair stared out his office window at the sprawling campus surrounding the BioGentec laboratories near the University of New Orleans. The blue of Lake Pontchartrain lay beyond. He watched the small army of groundskeepers with their John Deere mowers and golf cart utility vehicles moving across the lawn and among the gardens, manicured and in perfect order. He liked perfect order.
The phone on his desk chirped, and he jumped, spilling a few drops of the chicory coffee onto the Persian rug.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Sinclair, you have an international call on line eight,” his secretary said.
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 over 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.