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“Asalaamu alaikum,” the guard at the border greeted him. Rowan didn’t speak Arabic, but he knew what that meant. Peace be with you.
“Alaikum Asalaamu.” Rowan put his hand over his heart and nodded, mirroring the guard’s mannerisms. “Do you speak English?”
“American?” the guard asked, eyeing him warily.
“Yes, sir. I’m a grad student at the University of Cairo.” He handed over his papers, including his student visa and passport. “I’m meeting with a Dr. VanHouten from the University at Tobruk.”
“Wait here.” He took the papers back inside the guard shack. Rowan tried to remain calm as he watched the guards gather around and discuss his papers. The last thing he needed was trouble. A placid façade was in order, and he knew it.
The man, who appeared to be in charge, turned and looked at Rowan. He saw the man’s eyes widen. A broad grin brightened on the dark face as the man turned and made for the door, rushing over to the truck.
“Rowan Pierce?” He beamed. “The Rowan Pierce?”
“The only one I know.” Rowan puzzled.
“I watch your show. I watch all your show. Where is your beautiful wife? Where is Missus Pierce?”
Rowan realized now he’d found a fan, and a sense of relief washed over him as the other guards filed out behind him. “Doctor Pierce is working in Prague this week.” She would want him to correct the slight. She always did. She worked hard for her PhD, so why not?
The guard turned back to his fellows and enthused something in Arabic. Lauren would have known what they were saying but he was clueless. All the men, however, seemed to share in the guard’s excitement. The one with his credentials came over and handed them back, offering his hand. “Welcome to Libya. It is not every day we get to meet a famous adventurer.”
“Glad to know I have fans here,” Rowan said, accepting his hand.
Each guard had to shake his hand, which meant really to clasp his hand between theirs, for an extended period of time. “Asalaamu alaikum,” each of them said before turning loose of him. Rowan smiled all the way to Tobruk.
* * *
It was late when he arrived at the hostel where he was scheduled to meet the professor. He could hear the call to prayer echoing over the city. The streets were empty, and he knew most had either gone to the mosque or prayed in their homes. The prayer ritual was over 1400-years-old and was repeated five times a day. It set a rhythm to the pattern of life in this part of the world, and while Rowan didn’t practice the religion, he tried to be respectful of it. He waited in the car listening to the haunting song that lasted several minutes. When a group of young men finally emerged from a nearby building, he got out of the car and gathered his things.
“Asalaamu alaikum,” the innkeeper greeted him. “May I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Rowan Pierce. I should have a reservation,” he said.
“Of course, Mr. Pierce.” He nodded. “We have been waiting for you. Dr. VanHouten asked that you call him at this number when you arrive. He hopes you have not eaten dinner yet. He would like you to join him.”
“No, I haven’t.” Rowan took the hand-written card the man provided. “Thank you.”
“I will have your things taken to your room,” he said.
“I don’t mind taking it up,” he said. “I need to freshen up before dinner.”
“Of course.” He handed Rowan the key. “You are on the 4th floor, room B.”
“Thanks,” Rowan said.
He called the professor on his way up. Dr. VanHouten said he’d be by to meet him in thirty minutes. Plenty of time to get settled, Rowan decided.
The room was more spacious than he’d been expecting from a hostel. With the university footing the bill, he’d expected minimal accommodations. He tossed his bag on the bed and stripped out of his sweaty clothes. The cool shower never felt so refreshing.
* * *
When he stepped into the lobby downstairs a half-hour later, he had on a fresh button-up shirt and linen slacks. It was probably the nicest outfit he owned. It seemed fitting for dinner with his host. “Mister Pierce?” He turned at his name and found his host sitting in a large wingback chair reading the newspaper.
“Dr. VanHouten?” Rowan asked. As the man lowered the newspaper, Rowan was taken aback. He froze as his brow clamped down over his nose.
“No need to be so formal. Call me Vilhelm.” Jean-René did a perfect Dutch accent. No wonder Rowan didn’t recognize him on the phone.
“What the hell?” Rowan welcomed his best friend’s embrace and hearty slap on the shoulder, but he was dazed by his presence. “What are you doing in Libya?”
“I got diverted to a show here,” he said. “Libya’s Forbidden Deserts.”
“But...”
“Don’t look so shocked, Boss. The Network put out a mandate that we were not to contact you, and I couldn’t come to Egypt. When my last project when to hell, I got word this show needed a videographer. I took a cut in pay to get here.”
“What do you mean the Network ...” Rowan puzzled. He realized he hadn’t talked to either of his friends in months. He thought perhaps they were upset about them stepping away from the spotlight, and he’d been willing to give them time to ... adapt. “So there’s no Dr. VanHouten?”
“Maybe, but not here.” Jean-René’s face was stretched so tight into a smile that his eyes were nearly slits. He’d earned some new wrinkles in the year since Rowan had seen him last.
“How did you get Dr. Badr on board with this?” Rowan was completely flummoxed. “She went on and on about this ... Dr. VanHouten ...”
“The last time we spoke, you droned on and on about Professor Badr like she was some kind of rock star. I called her to see how I could get you to Libya and she actually came up with the cover story.”
“Did Dr. Aziz know about the ruse?”
“I’ve never heard that name.” Jean-René shrugged. “Dr. Badr told me she’d take care of everything on her end. I’m just sorry I couldn’t figure out a way to get Lauren here with you.”
“Well she wouldn’t have been able to come anyway.” Rowan finally managed a deep breath. It steadied his shaking knees. He was happy, of course, to see Jean-René. It’d been over a year since cable TV’s power-couple announced their intention to take a sabbatical and leave their life in the US behind. “Look, I feel like I should apologize,” Rowan started.
“No need.” Jean-René stopped him. “We’ve all had to do what we’ve had to do. But there’s a side project I’m working on, and I need your help.”
“Something new? A side project?”
“We do have a dig here, but I ... we ... Bahati and I ... had something unusual happen. Something we got on video.”
“Video? Well, come on,” he said. “You can tell me over dinner.” Jean-René nodded as Rowan put an arm around his shoulder. “I have news, too.”
* * *
“Another one?” Jean-René sat back in his chair when Rowan told him about the baby.
“I know, right?” Rowan could barely contain his joy. “I have my fingers crossed for a girl.”
“You get what you get,” Jean-René said.
“Well, of course,” Rowan sat back in his chair as the waiter came back with a plate of hummus and a basket of flatbread, along with a tray of couscous with stewed meats and vegetables. “We’ll be happy either way. But I do hope we have a girl. Speaking of, how’s Nyota? Bahati?”
“They’re fine,” he said. “Bahati is doing some copywriting.”
“She’s working? At the studio?”
He laughed. “She’s just working from home.”
“Oh, well good for her,” Rowan said.
“Her hands are full.” Jean-René pulled out his phone and scrolled through pictures before handing it to Rowan. “Look at how big our daughter is.” He pointed as Rowan inspected the images. The little girl had light brown skin with springy curls tied up in pigtails and amber-green eyes. She looked mischievous in almost every picture.
“She’s beautiful.” Rowan handed the phone back. “Good job, my friend.”
“You’re two up on me,” Jean-René said, shaking his head, putting his phone away.
“Better get busy.” Rowan waggled his eyebrows.
Jean-René’s smile faded, and he lifted his brow and shoulder simultaneously. “I wish it were that easy,” he said. “Bahati’s had some ... difficulties. We lost one in the spring. It was still early on, but it hurt, nonetheless.”
Rowan’s expression mirrored his friend’s. “I’m ... so sorry to hear that.”
“Me, too.” Jean-René’s expression seemed forced. “But the trying is still fun.”
“So tell me about this video you took.” Rowan sensed a change of subject was needed.
Jean-René cued it up on his phone. “Better just to show you.” He handed the phone to Rowan.
He watched it, his brows creeping up higher and higher as the video looped. “Where is this?”
“Catalina Island,” he said. “I finally got that sail boat I always wanted.”
Rowan looked at him, a wry smile hooked up in one corner of his cheek. “Congrats,” he said, turning his attention back to the video. “Who have you shown this to?”
“No one has seen it except Bahati and me.” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t want the Network to run amok with it. I thought it might be ... you know, Lauren’s friends.”
Rowan looked at him sharply. “Friends ... or ...enemies.”
“That was my worst fear,” Jean-René said.
Rowan eyed him warily over the edge of the phone. “Glad you kept this one close to the vest.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I’ll call Lauren and see if she’s heard from Michael, or maybe ... maybe she can make a call.”
“She can do that?”
Rowan shrugged. “Considering everything else she can do; I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“Valid point,” Jean-René said, taking his phone back. He looked pensive.
Rowan nodded, raising his cup of tea to his lips. “So, are we still going on a dig or what?”
The happy light returned to Jean-René’s amber eyes. “Oh yes, of course we are. But I ... I can’t let you appear on camera,” he said. “The Network ... they don’t know you’re here.”
“Oh, well,” Rowan said. “I wasn’t expecting to be, so ... it’s all good.”
“Good,” Jean-René said, relief apparent in his manner. “Good.”
Over the next hour Jean-René filled him in on the plans for tomorrow’s expedition as they lingered over a leisurely meal. “We will need to leave early to beat the heat,” Jean-René finally said.
Rowan glanced at his watch. “What time?”
Jean-René grinned. “0400.”
Rowan’s expression dropped. “That’s like five hours away.”
“You were military,” Jean-René said, as if that were enough. Rowan remembered the early morning calls to duty.
“After driving all day today, I’m beat. I need some Z’s.”
“We’ve lingered over dinner long enough to be respectful to our host.” Jean-René nodded towards the restaurant owner who stood at the podium near the entrance. “Come on, I’ll walk you back to the hotel.”
* * *
The meal was simple, but good. Tomáš’ mother had made soup. The broth was clearly chicken, flavored with lemon and parsley, enriched with wild rice, vegetables, and chunks of white meat. A loaf of crusty brown bread, still warm from the oven, was slathered with butter. Lauren knew she shouldn’t make a pig of herself, but her hunger got the better of her and she ate two bowls of soup and had several slices of bread.
“Did you save room for dessert?” Zuzu asked. “I made a lemon chiffon cake the other day. It’s still moist and I can’t eat it all by myself.”
Lauren debated, then nodded. “Maybe just a small slice.”
When they retired to the living room Lauren was stuffed and just wanted to sleep, but she didn’t want to be rude, so she joined her hosts for a while.
“Tomáš,” Zuzu said. “Did you tell Lauren about our arrangement?”
“I’m afraid there wasn’t time,” he said.
Lauren looked between the two of them in a wordless plea for explanation.
“My mother is a former government spy,” Tomáš said.
Lauren’s jaw dropped. “She’s a... a s-s-spy?” She turned to her hostess. “Like ... James Bond?”
“Maybe more like Mata Hari.” She offered. Lauren’s brow lifted. Lauren knew the name. It meant the eye of the day. Apt name for a female spy, she supposed. “I started my career in as a military police officer, then worked undercover in Russia for many years. I helped shut down several KGB operations in Estonia and Czechoslovakia during the Cold War. All water under the bridge now. I spent the past few years doing private security for international corporations, up until I retired last year.”
“I’ve never met a retired spy before,” Lauren said blankly.
“Few of us make it to retirement,” Zuzu said. “You have to be very good or very lucky.”
Lauren puzzled a moment on that thought. “Which one were you?”
“I was lucky enough to be good.” Zuzu grinned, then laughed at her own joke. “You will be quite safe here,” she added.
“My mother can hold her own against anyone,” Tomáš stated.
“Are we the only ones here? Surely you have help keeping up with such a grand manse?”
“I have a groundskeeper that comes every other day or so,” she said. “Trust me, I don’t need help with security. That’s my department and if I may be so bold, I’m quite good at it.”
“I’ll sleep better knowing that,” Lauren said.
“Tomáš, will you be staying? I’ve got your room made up.”
“I can’t.” He shook his head. “I have to be back at the museum in the morning to follow up on some of the information Dr. Pierce gave me today. I’ll be back out when I finish up there.”
“If no one minds, I think I’ll turn in early,” Lauren said, rising from her chair. Tomáš stood, too.
“Of course.” Zuzu nodded. “I’m just down the hallway, first room at the top of the stairs, if you need anything.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Lauren said politely. “Dinner was excellent.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” her host said. “Rest well.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tomáš said to Lauren.
* * *
“Rowan Pierce, this is Greg Wilson from the University of Miami,” Jean-René introduced him to the field archeologist. “Greg’s in charge of cataloguing anything we find.”
“Nice to meet you,” Rowan said.
“Dr. Fazan is in the trailer,” Greg said, pointing that direction. “We’ve been waiting for you to get started.”
“Sorry we’re late,” Jean-René said. “Rowan needed coffee before the long drive.”
“It’s all good.” Greg loaded some equipment up onto his ATV. “Go check in and I’ll wait for you and take you over to the site.”
“Thanks, man.”
Rowan followed Jean-René to the trailer as the door open and a man in a long white shirt and pants stepped out onto the deck. The dark-skinned man had a red fringed scarf around his neck.
“Ah, Mr. Pierce. I am Dr. Fazan. We’ve been expecting you. You’re late.” He seemed irritated.
“Sorry,” Rowan said. “Jean-René needed coffee.” The two were teasing each other and having a good time at it. It’d been so long since they’d had a chance to poke fun at one another.
“Well you will regret it when the afternoon heat sets in. You will need water today.” He pointed to the water cooler. “It will be extremely hot out at the dig. The team has water at the site but please, help yourself.”
They loaded up on supplies and made sure they had their equipment and everything they would need for the day. Rowan slathered himself in sunscreen and pulled on his wide-brimmed hat, wishing he had a scarf like Dr. Fazan. They hurried to catch up with Greg and the team.
ATVs carried them across the already-roasting desert, down to the dig site. Rowan loved driving any kind of off-road vehicle, usually, but driving on sand was a bit of a challenge. The risk of rolling even a four-wheeled vehicle was ever-present. Fortunately, they didn’t have any trouble.
* * *
“So what are we looking at?” Rowan asked as they came up on the team working down in an excavation that was maybe twenty meters squared, and about four meters deep. The remains of a stone foundation and portions of a stone wall lay among the ruins in one corner. Workers on the other side of the excavation lay sprawled out on their stomachs with paintbrushes and small pallet knives.
“This is an ancient storehouse,” Greg said.
“A storehouse?” Rowan asked as Jean-René set up the camera. “How do you know it’s a storehouse?”
“Well, come on over and let me introduce you to Marco and Paulo.” Greg grinned.
“Wait? What? Marco? Paulo?” The two men turned away from each other rolling over to look at him. “Am I seeing double? What’s going on here?”
“We are twins,” one of them said.
“I bet you guys got lost a lot as kids,” Rowan snarked.
“Marco!” Jean-René chorused.
“Polo!” Rowan echoed. “Which one’s which?”
“I’m Marco,” the other chimed in, as he stood, wiping his hand on the seat of his pants before he stuck it out. “Dr. Marco Bianchi. My brother, Dr. Paulo Bianchi.”
Paulo rose and repeated the gesture. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“So how do you know we have a storehouse?” Rowan asked after introductions were made. The two men stepped apart and Rowan saw what they were trying to free from the sands. “Pottery ...”
“Yes, yes.” Paulo waved him over, and soon all three men were sprawled out on their bellies, examining the markings on the crumbling ceramic vases and urns. Marco used a paint brush to clear the sand away.
Marco handed him a fragment. He studied it with a keen eye. It had been stamped while the pottery was still uncured. Tiny chicken-feet hatch marks told Rowan of its age and origins as well. “Is that Sumerian?”
“You read cuneiform?” Paulo asked.
“No, but I recognize it,” he said. “My wife is the linguist.”
“We found tablets nearby written in a form of proto-cuneiform,” Marco said. “Those date back to about 3,000 BC.”
“How old are these pottery shards?” Rowan asked.
“About 4,200 years old.” Marco beamed. “One of the tablets we found tells us about the rations of beer, lentils and grain provided as a bride-price to a groomsman’s family.”
“A bride-price?”
“Marriages were arranged in ancient Sumer. The bride and the groom had little to no say once the contract was arranged,” Marco said.
“However, if the arrangement proved unfruitful, the couple could divorce and each of them could marry a second time,” Paulo added. “We’ve found markings on tablets and building stones pertaining to everyday life in this city. This is just one of the buildings we’ve identified with LIDAR. Are you familiar with LIDAR, Mr. Pierce?”
Rowan nodded. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’ve used it a number of times.”
Paulo looked at Marco and shook his head. “Rich Egyptian universities have all the good toys.”
Marco said something back in Italian shaking his head and the two laughed. For a moment Rowan really missed Lauren. She would be able to translate it, and he was certain his hosts would be impressed with her ability to read the ancient markings. “Well, actually, I used LIDAR to map some cenotes and underwater caverns in Mexico near Chichén Itzà before I started back to college. If Cairo has access to LIDAR they don’t allow mere students to use it.”
“Ah.” Paulo shrugged. “We need to finish excavating this layer of pottery, catalogue them and then package them up for transport. We have much work to do. Here.” He handed Rowan a pallet knife. “Have you learned how to do artifact recovery?”
“Archaeology 101.” Rowan grinned. “Aced that class.”
“Well, best get after it,” Marco said. “We think there are more layers.”
“More?” Rowan smirked. “Someone call my wife and let her know I’m going to be late for dinner. I got some digging to do.” He held up the small pallet knife and looked back at his colleagues, puzzling over its size. “What? The Network wouldn’t spring for something bigger? Like a back hoe? What about a garden spade? No?”