Читать книгу Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs - Jina Bacarr - Страница 13

7

Dizziness invades my head and nausea rolls through my stomach, one wave after another. I try to take a breath, but my lungs hurt. Dammit, I can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Panic makes me grind my teeth, possessing me with a fear so intense my heart jumps in my chest. What happened?

Damn, I can’t remember. My brain is swimming in a swirl of saffron fog, clinging to me like wisps of memories lost in a swirling sea. Unfortunately, my body is also suffering from a partial paralysis from whatever drug the Russian gave me and it won’t give up its secrets. I roll my head from side to side, begging for some answers, but all I feel are achy arms, stiff neck and, yes, my butt hurts. Not from the tight fit of a dildo jammed into my back end and bruising the soft flesh, but like someone jabbed me with a needle.

Wait. Someone did jab me in my rear.

I hear a man laughing. Was it him?

In a whirlpool of memory mist and damnable recognition, everything rushes back to me—the alley, the one-eyed Jack and the Russian. Vodka breath, fat, cold fingers, body ripe with sweat. I almost got the guidance chip from him, but I can’t remember much after he sprayed mist into my ear. Chloral hydrate? I don’t know. He could have added the sedative to the vodka he offered me, but I don’t remember drinking it.

I do remember I couldn’t breathe, my brain circuits zapping and zinging out of control. Worse, I failed at my mission. As a TA special agent trained in exfiltration, I’m more than a swallow—a female operative who uses sex as a tool. I’m also an intelligence agent who specializes in getting friendly agents out of hostile territory. It was my job to find the Russian and bring him in.

Where am I now? I stretch out and my feet touch a wall, my left shoulder another wall. I sense I’m confined in a small space. A coffin? Oh, God, no. It can’t end like this. Not after everything I’ve been through, not when I’m so close to finding Sharif. I must bring him to justice. He destroyed my life and my work.

I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to will my brain to focus. Images form in my mind. The young Arab boy…his red scarf…the unforgiving desert sucking him into its bowels. I let my thoughts dwell back to that day I chased after him. I was ready. I heard the voices. I did make an important discovery—

One of the greatest antiquities of the ancient world…

Two years earlier Syria

I race toward the spot where the child disappeared, my boots kicking up dirt, my body so tense I can’t breathe, the mood of the desert so quiet my ears hum in silence. As if it waits to see what I’ll do, if I can recover the bounty it’s taken to its breast as payment for my folly.

No. I won’t let the boy suffer for what I’ve done.

I pump up my speed, but I don’t seem to be moving any faster. What’s wrong? My rational mind tells me I’m running as fast as I can, yet my body floats in a macabre dance, my legs light and airy like a two-dimensional cartoon figure stuck in slo-mo. All the while, I chide myself for allowing this to happen. I should have seen the signs sooner. On closer inspection, I make out a dark layer where there should be bedrock. When I reach the mound I can see it’s a vast, shapeless mass, covered with scattered brush and scarcely any traces of footsteps except where the winter rains formed ravines down its perpendicular sides and laid open a sinkhole on the surface of a recently irrigated field.

And somewhere down at the bottom of the hole is a small boy.

Crying.

Muff led cries, but cries. I swallow hard, my heart beating again. He’s alive.

“Missy Breezy, my brother, help him!” The older boy grabs on to my shirt, pulling and tugging at me. I wrap my arms around him to comfort him.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get him.” I point up the hill. “Run back to camp. Tell them what happened. I’ll go down into the hole and—”

I feel my boots slipping, my tall frame pushing down into the earth. Before I completely lose my balance, I shove the boy away from me. “Go, run!” I let out my breath, not taking my eyes off him until I’m certain he’s out of danger, then, holding on to nearby brush, I lean over, straining to see down the hole. “Mo Ahmed!” I call out, using my nickname for the little boy, but I see nothing. More disturbing to my frantic nerves, I hear nothing. Is he so frightened he can’t speak? Or is he—

Not daring to put that thought into my rattled brain, I lean farther over the hole, calling out his name again, heedless of my own safety, already hearing the shrieking of the boy’s mother, the men shouting orders to one another. “Mo Ah—” I don’t finish the words before the ground gives way underneath me and I plunge down the hole, landing with a thud, then rolling over onto my side, choking and sputtering on a mouthful of dirt.

I wipe the grit out of my mouth, realize my sunglasses flew off my face, but other than that I’m okay. Within seconds, the dust clears from my eyes and I spin around looking for the child. He’s nowhere in sight.

Where did he go?

“Missy Breezy!” I hear voices coming from above me. Ahmed and his wife, along with the other diggers, peer over the side of the hole. I look up, figure I must have fallen into a well shaft about fifteen, twenty feet deep. I see portions of stone steps jutting out through the dirt wall. How far down do they go?

“Your son’s okay!” I call out with assurance, hoping I’m right. I heard him crying, so he must have pulled himself up and wandered away, but where? I’m surrounded on three sides by rough-cut walls. A daring thought traverses through my brain at lightning speed. A big hole near a series of steps leading downward was an attempt by builders to stop grave robbers from getting access to the rest of the tomb. Is a tomb nearby? I look around, squinting. A pile of dirt covers the other wall, dirt that sucked me down with it. A terrifying thought comes over me. Suppose the child is buried under that dirt—

“I come down,” Ahmed calls out, and I can hear him scuffling closer to the edge of the sinkhole.

“No, it’s too dangerous!” I yell back. I don’t want him to panic when he doesn’t find the boy with me. “Get a rope. I’ll tie it around him and you can hoist him up.”

When I find him, I finish silently, wishing I had my flashlight. The sun decides to be on my side after all, casting a sobering light onto the area. I see an amphora-shaped jar, unbroken and intact, lying less than a foot from me. My brain records it, yearns to grab it and examine it, but I have one thing on my mind. Find the boy. A chill races through me when I see a small opening I missed earlier. With new hope filling me up, I bend down and call out, “Mo Ahmed, are you in there?”

“Mama!” I hear a feeble voice coming from somewhere beyond the small crawl-through space. I can’t stop the tears forming in my eyes.

“Mama zamanha gaya,” I yell, getting on my hands and knees and making my way through the small opening, careful not to disturb the soft dirt overhead. “Mama is coming!”

* * *

Half an hour later, the little boy is gulping down cool sheep’s milk with his anxious mother holding him and mumbling how thankful she is to me for saving her baby. Ahmed hugs and kisses me on both cheeks over and over, something he’d never do under ordinary circumstances, then we go to work. With the help of my team, I bring up the amphora I found and, on closer inspection, identify the two-handled jar with a narrow neck and vertical handles that arches high above the mouth as twelfth, maybe thirteenth century. I can’t contain my excitement. According to my calculations, this entire area is believed to have been used for secret burials and human sacrifice long before the Crusades. The tombs unearthed in the area all date back more than two thousand years ago. If this is a buried tomb, and the size and shape of the vault indicates it is, then an interloper from a later time must have found the shaft and used it as a shelter.

A knight from the Crusades? I question. The archaeologist in the photos found his sword and part of his shield near the site, didn’t he? I sense the dead live here, waiting for me to find them.

Digging through the feet of soil filling in the rectangular shaft, we uncover a stone stairway consisting of sixteen steps leading to a tomb chamber roughly oval in shape. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I stop, my ears attuned to that distinct sound so familiar to my soul. I hear the whispers. When I come across another unbroken pot, my heart jumps. I’m a woman with a dream, focused, committed, not deterred by academic bickering or jealous rivalry among colleagues. I’m free to follow my gut. Legend says the lost Crusader knights headed toward Palmyra, located midway between the Mediterranean and the Euphrates. I believe the knights deviated from the route and were looking for a popular oasis in this area, an essential watering place for the many camel caravans that traversed the route in the time of the Roman Empire, when they were attacked by advancing Turks or a local desert tribe.

Shining my flashlight, I channel my previous trepidation into unbelievable excitement when I see two statues of lions, winged and human-headed, forming a portal. Mouth open, eyes trying not to blink, I bend down to creep under them and make my way deeper into the moist vault. I see another winged figure, this time an eagle with a human head, and two alabaster slabs with bas-relief faded not only from time but the dripping water seeping down through the earth. I make my way in small, careful steps, arcing the beam of my flashlight on specific areas, revealing portions of the wall decor in increments so it seems the pictures keep changing, like a dazzling slide show. Figures of slaves bearing objects of tribute such as earrings, bracelets and monkeys are painted on the walls, though the once-brilliant colors have faded. Broken pottery, trash, all lie strewn about the chamber, along with lachrymatories, tear-bottles, so named because they hold the tears of the people burying the dead. I unearth an arm here, a finger there, broken skulls. Not unusual because grave robbers dismembered the bodies to yank the trinkets from the dead. I see distinct tracings where the bodies were buried in wooden coffins, long decayed but lined with bitumen and a whitish material that gives off an eerie glow.

But no treasure lies hidden here. None.

Voices of a different nature play over and over in my head, their rich timbre giving me a headache, ominous voices commanding attention, telling me I’m a fool. Robbers long ago ravished whatever artifacts were buried here, but it could have been a royal tomb. The elaborate wall drawings and statuary decorating the antechamber attest to my theory. I have to admit to a major disappointment taking up residence in my mental adobe, but that doesn’t stop me from continuing my search.

Determined to validate the objects I’ve unearthed, my crew and I set to work, and within a few days, I’ve recovered several broken amphoras and gathered up the pieces of human bones scattered around the floor of the chamber and in a pile against a wall. I’ve found no jewelry fashioned of silver, gold or lapis lazuli, though I do recover a lump of iron, possibly from a meteorite, as well as ceramic vessels, some containing animal bones that may have been part of funerary animal offerings. Still, it’s a fascinating discovery, though disappointing not to have found any intact human remains or evidence the knights stopped here on their journey homeward. No doubt the tomb was plundered long before I tumbled down the sinkhole.

Yet still I hear the voices.

I’m a stubborn woman to the point of obsession when it comes to my work, treating every excavation like a crime scene, making certain my crew wears white hospital masks to keep the dust out of their lungs, plastic gloves to examine the pieces, and I never give up. Never. I go over every inch of that vault, the beam of my flashlight painting white streaks of sheer light from end to end, like a painter illuminating a celestial canvas, and somehow I miss it: a faint square about three feet in size outlined on the wall painting and nearly invisible to the naked eye. I would never have found it if I hadn’t been curious about the stones embedded in the faded mosaic of a beautiful woman in a swirling chemise, her hand outstretched and beckoning, as if calling out to me.

“Ahmed!” I call out. “Come quickly!” My team leader leaves his work gathering up pottery and hurries over to where I shine the flashlight on the wall. “What do you think of her?”

He nods. “Beautiful lady. Like you, Missy Breezy.”

I smile at his compliment, then point to the faint square outlined with my flashlight. “Look closer. Do you think that could be a door?”

He flicks on his flashlight and the double beams focusing on the spot confirm what I believe. “Yes. Another room?”

“Let’s find out.”

He calls for two men to help us, and, using a crowbar, we pry open the small door. It moves easily, which surprises me, as if it’s on a track. I train my flashlight beam through the wide fissure, Ahmed and his two workers peering over my shoulder and chatting with excitement. We all gasp at the same moment. The sight of a small side chamber or annex beyond makes me weak at my knees; the sight of two human skeletons lying side by side on the floor makes me lean closer, hoping to hear the whispers. Soft at first, then louder, the sounds lift me until I’m virtually beside myself with anticipation.

“This may be what I’m looking for, Ahmed,” I say in a soft voice so as not to disturb the dead. “Follow me.”

“I go anywhere with you, Missy Breezy,” he says with-out hesitation, then he adds with a catch in his voice, “You save my son.”

I nod, smiling, then with Ahmed behind me, I crawl through the opening to the other side. I shine my flashlight on remnants of clothing, chain mail from armor and a helmet that completely covers the face with a faded heraldry inscribed on it that I can’t identify. Thirteenth-century Crusaders wore such helmets, I tell Ahmed. At the same time, a story I read when I was a teen races through my mind, bringing up the same excitement I knew when I’d sneak off to read stories of history and lore, mummies and queens. My sister, Peyton, would hide my books, then dare me to tag along with her and her friends. I couldn’t. She never understood I felt different from other girls and I wasn’t interested in gossip and shopping. I wanted to travel to exotic places and break bread with the past to taste it, to embrace it and to understand it.

Now I’ve found my dream.

I hear Ahmed draw in his breath. “May Allah be praised, we’ve found a secret room.”

“We’re not the first to discover it. Look.” I shine my light on the smaller skull, most likely female, covered with dirt and deteriorating cloth fragments. She wears a necklace with fine, round, dark gray objects. With black dust billowing up around me every time I move a piece of the female skeleton, I tap on the round objects, one at a time, their tinny sound echoing in the chamber like footsteps marching back through the centuries. “Hand me a brush, Ahmed. These pieces might be silver.”

Not taking his eyes off the skeleton, he draws a paintbrush from his pocket and hands it to me. I kneel down beside the female skeleton and, with a gentle touch as if I were opening a book with thin, delicate pages, I begin dusting the dirt away. Little by little, I see glints of color.

“It’s gold, Ahmed.” I hold in my hand a gold necklace and a gold headband with thin layers of gold covering her features in the shape of a grape leaf. “That doesn’t make sense,” I ponder out loud. “If the grave robbers took everything of value, then why didn’t they take the gold jewelry off this woman? Unless—”

She took refuge in here years, centuries afterward, I finish in silence. Who was she? What were her last thoughts before death claimed her? A tightness grips my chest and the weight of my responsibility to preserve this woman’s final moments becomes real to me. I’m determined to tell her story.

“Over here, Missy Breezy!”

“Have you found something, Ahmed?”

He speaks as if he’s reciting a prayer. “Yes.”

I spin around to see him moving his flashlight jerkily over a moon-faced object lying on a small slab. It looks like a mask, the glimmer of azure then deep red then green flickering ever so brief ly in the demanding glare of his light, as if unwilling to wake up from their somnolent centuries-long sleep.

What can it be? I flip through the files in my mental catalog, bringing up what I can remember about lost Byzantine artifacts, many known to archaeologists because they’re mentioned in ancient texts or painted on tapestries and mosaics. I remember being enchanted by the story of a gold mask that belonged to an empress, a gift from her husband that was stolen from her tomb during the Crusades.

Do I dare dream this mask can lead me back centuries to the time of the cradle of civilization and give me the opportunity to pad out the bones of a beautiful courtesan who became an empress? And to recover a treasure taken from the famed city of Constantinople and lost for a thousand years?

“Hold my flashlight,” I say, handing it to him. “And keep it pointed on the mask while I remove the dirt.”

Using the paintbrush, I wipe away the layers of centuries with a reverence I’ve never felt before settling into my bones. I revel in the even flow of my movements, experiencing an emotional high, and though I’m involved in a physical act, I have no feeling in my fingers, as if they’re moving without effort. The tremendous power of my belief presses me to continue, enlightening me, until I become one with the object, my own self vanishing into the depth of the mask’s rich history. Even before the first golden sparkle warms the cold, damp vault with its shine, I know what it is.

A gold mask crafted in the likeness of this powerful woman and set with pearls, rubies, sapphires and emeralds mounted in gold, which hung in festoons from her temples to her breasts. A treasure worth untold millions.

The Mask of Darkma.