I told her to sit tight. And, while she protested, I worked my way down the rocks.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I slipped from the shadows and crossed the open ice field, feeling naked and exposed. The twin spotlights cast my shadow in two different directions. My boots crunched loudly over the ice. An eternity later, although it had only been twenty seconds, I reached camp. I moved as stealthily as a grizzly intoxicated on fermented berries.

  Once in camp, I moved low to the ground, stepping quickly from tent to tent. From within most tents came a cacophony of snores and mumbles and wheezes. Sleeping on ice is hell on the sinuses. Shortly, I was crouched before the desired tent. So far, I had gone unnoticed. I took a deep breath and eased the zipper down, and waited. Nothing stirred. No alarms. I slipped inside, leaving the flap partly open to allow for some light.

  I scanned the tent quickly. Two bunks. The left contained a figure of unknown size, age or sex. Beneath the bunk was the gleaming barrel of a sub-machine gun. By the looks of it, a Russian AK-47. The right bunk was empty. A quarter would have bounced nicely on the smartly tucked blanket.

  I moved forward in a crab-like crawl, my boots brushing silently over the nylon floor. Without warning, my head banged into an unseen lantern. The loud clang of metal and glass could have woken the dead. However, the figure on the bed barely stirred, simply mumbling: “Idiot, the open flap is letting in the cold.”

  “The flap has let in more than that, my friend,” I said.

  He sat up suddenly, eyes wide in the half-light. He made a futile effort for the weapon under his cot until I pressed the blade of my pocketknife into his throat. “Do not make a sound!”

  He bit my hand, tearing the skin. I shoved my fist into his mouth. He looked like a stuffed pig at a Hawaiian luau.

  “I will remove my fist,” I said in Arabic. “If you promise not to yell. Do you promise?”

  He nodded; my fist nodded with him.

  I pressed my knife blade into his throat, drawing blood. “But if you do decide to yell, I will cut your throat. Then you will be dead and I will simply get what I need from someone else. Do you understand?”

  He nodded.

  I removed my fist. He sucked in air like a newborn. He was a young, good-looking kid.

  “Very good. What’s your name?”

  “Hayik.”

  “You are a soldier?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  He paused, turning his head slightly, scanning my face. A curious grin touched his lips. “You own the bar in Dogubayazit,” he said.

  “I am a long way from my bar, Hayik. I have come for answers, and I will get them from you.” There was a long pause. He stared at me. I shifted my weight and got my shoulder into a better position across his chest. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  He shook his head. “I will give you no answers.”

  I respected his resolve, but there was no time for it. “You will, or you die. And you will not be dying for your honorable country. You will be dying for the Arab’s greed.”

  His eyes wavered. A few seconds later, he said, “I will not die for him.” He swallowed. “Can you remove the knife?”

  I adjusted the point, but kept the blade firmly against his throat. “What do you know of the American professor and his student?” I asked.

  He nodded and said, “Ah.”

  “Speak quickly,” I said, emphasizing my urgency by pressing the knife deeper into his skin. “Are they alive?”

  When he spoke, he did so carefully, not wishing to make any sudden movements. “They are alive, as far as I know.”

  I eased the pressure. “Where are they?”

  “There is a cave above camp, perhaps an hour’s climb. They are there.”

  Hayik gave me the directions. I knew the cave all too well. “Why are they there?”

  “They work for the emir as slaves, removing the rocks that block the tunnel.”

  “Are there guards?”

  “Two.”

  In a quick movement I discarded the knife and slipped my arm behind his neck, pressing my hand into his right temple. I twisted his head and held him like that for many seconds. He kicked once and then lay still. A classic sleeper hold. He should be out for a few minutes. Next, I found some rags and tied his hands and feet together. I shoved another rag in his mouth, and (ever the soft-hearted fool) checked his breathing. He seemed to be doing okay.

  I grabbed the AK-47 and the bottle of vodka and slipped out into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  We peered down onto a small tunnel opening from a rocky escarpment thirty feet away. Snow fell sporadically around us, fluttering like tiny white butterflies. Two guards were posted just inside the tunnel’s entrance. A small fire illuminated the opening, highlighting the dark granite walls. The guards sat on folding chairs. Between them was a rickety table. They were playing cards and smoking and totally oblivious to us.

  Near the entrance, off to the side, was a narrow finger of rock jutting up through the ice. The rock appeared to have been recently excavated from a drift of snow. Indeed, it looked more like an arthritic finger pointing accusingly into the sky.

  Son of a bitch, I thought. The marker.

  Faye grabbed my arm and pointed to the stone marker. “That’s the marker, Sam. The finger of rock. It must have been hidden in ice all this time. This is the cave. My father is here. I know it.”

  As I studied the entrance, I saw myself holding my dead fiancé, the side of her head cracked open and bleeding. I saw myself burying her with my own hands. In a cave. In this cave.

  Faye asked, “Sam, are you okay?”

  I took a deep shuddering breath, and when I spoke again my voice didn’t sound like my own. It sounded like someone much older and far too tired. “No, I’m not okay.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I know this cave,” I said.

  Although I wasn’t looking at Faye, I could feel her eyes on me. She had heard the pain in my voice and asked softly, “How do you know this cave, Sam?”

  “Because it doubles as a tomb,” I said. “I buried my fiancé here.”

  ***

  We were quiet. I studied the soldiers and the cave opening. I was pretty sure I could make out their semi-automatics leaning against the cave walls, along with other supplies, such as backpacks and flashlights. I gripped my own AK-47. One guard suddenly threw his head back and guffawed, slapping his knee. The other tossed his handful of cards disgustedly onto the table and lit another cigarette, the flare briefly illuminating his sharp chin and nose and cupped hand.

  I said to Faye, “We don’t have much time.”

  I wanted a cigarette. I wanted Liz. I wanted Faye. I took a deep shuddering breath and rolled over onto my back and felt the ice crunch between my shoulders. I looked up into the night and watched the snow blow across my face. I closed my eyes and felt each freezing fleck on my skin. “This is going to be a long night,” I whispered.

  ***

  I stepped out of the shadows and into the ring of firelight. I held the AK-47 loosely at my side. The two guards didn’t see me at first. The glow from their fire cast my shadow behind me as I stood there. The warmth was nice on my face and hands. The soldiers were young, although one was clearly older than the other. A cigarette hung from the older one’s lower lip. Both wore military green jackets with hoods on, their weapons too far away to do them any good. I cleared my throat.

  They jumped comically, cards flying from their hands. Instinctively, they reached for their weapons. In Arabic, I told them that wasn’t a good idea. The young one didn’t listen and continued to move toward his AK-47, fingers out-stretched. I threw back the bolt of my weapon, the metallic sound echoing in the tunnel. The soldier froze. Slowly, both sets of dark eyes turned toward me. I nodded to them, ever the kind stranger.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” I said.

  They said nothing, perhaps too shocked for words. Two of their playing cards ended up in the fire. They turned black and curled into nothing.

  “Sorry about the intrusion,” I said in Arabic. “But I believe you have something I want.”

  The oldest was in his early twenties. Thick beard. Crooked nose. He regained some of his composure and eyed me coolly. “What would that be?”

  “You’re going to lead me to the old man and his student.”

  And then I told them to put their hands behind their heads and turn around, in that order. The youngest did as he was told, but the older continued to stare at me, perhaps considering testing me. My finger tightened on the trigger. Finally, he turned.

  “A wise decision,” I said. I called Faye over and she trotted boldly from the shadows. She had a look of expectation on her face, for she knew her father may be just around the corner. I gave the order, and the four of us promptly marched into the tunnel.

  Chapter Thirty

  As we made our way around a slight bend in the tunnel, and as the light from the fire slowly faded into the background, we were forced to use the soldiers’ flashlights.

  The tunnel was high enough to walk through without ducking. The jagged granite walls were coated with lichen, which grew in clumps and seemed to emit a soft green light, although that could have been my imagination. The tunnel angled to the right and up. Sand muffled the sounds of our boots. The ceiling was cloaked in stygian darkness, and as we moved deeper within the tunnel, the temperature began to rise.

  “It’s getting warm,” said Faye, loosening her collar.

  “As a rule of thumb,” I said, “the temperature rises five degrees for every one hundred yards in most subterranean tunnels.”

  Suddenly, the older sentry dropped a hand to his waist and removed an object from his hip, and started to turn, all in the blink of an eye. But I was waiting for this one to try something, and so I moved quickly, smashing the stock of the rifle between his shoulder blades, knocking him forward into the sand. He got up slowly and turned, gasping for breath. I leveled the weapon at his chest.

  I had knocked the wind and snot out of him, judging by the gleaming spittle on his thick beard. Glinting dully near his feet was a small knife. I stepped over and kicked it away, and the black-handled blade scuttled over the sand and hit the far wall with a clang.

  I turned to the younger one. His hands shook over his head. “Is your friend always this stupid?” I asked, but the kid didn’t answer. Asking the kid’s name, rank and serial number would have gotten the same results: nothing.

  I turned back to the older soldier. “Raise your hands up high. Good boy.”

  Then I stepped over and punched him solidly in the face, and his head snapped back and he stumbled against the granite wall. It had been a good punch, splitting his cheek and hurting my hand. He wanted to fall, or at least slide down to his rear end, but pure hatred and stubbornness kept him on his feet. He would be a good soldier. “You challenge me again, and you die,” I said. “Do you understand?”

  Slowly, probably when the stars stopped flashing in his head, he nodded.

  “Good,” I said. “Now get moving.”

  I gave him a moment to find his feet, and then he stumbled forward, hands still in the air. I told the younger soldier to walk next to me. He was crying silently, tears glistening in the dark corners of his eyes.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Harim.”

  “How old are you, Harim?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Why are you not in school?” I asked.

  He stared at the weapon in my hand, then finally looked up at me. “I have never gone to school,” he said.

  I nodded. In Turkey, boys and girls in most rural villages did not attend school; instead, they worked at home with their families. “Which village are you from, Harim?” I asked.

  “Arsuz,” he said. And amazingly, he mustered enough courage to say it proudly.

  I knew of the village. It was on the southern coast of Turkey and even doubled as a minor resort area for the wealthy. Most citizens of Arsuz, and other such cities along the southern coast, were either dirt poor or in employment to the wealthy.

  “Beautiful place,” I said.

  He nodded eagerly.

  “Do you miss your home?” I asked, correctly reading the longing in his eyes.

  He shrugged nonchalantly, some of the soldier still in him. “I guess.”

  “You are not a soldier, Harim,” I stated. “So why did you become one?”

  If he took any offense to my hasty conclusion, he didn’t show it. “My brother is a soldier. Father is very proud of him.”

  I nodded, understanding. “A father’s approval means much, perhaps too much,” I said. “You do not belong here.”

  I told him to put his arms down. I slipped back and walked next to Faye as the tunnel turned sharply and we suddenly stepped into a dimly lit cave. The remains of a fire smoldered in the center of the cave. Around the fire were two sleeping forms, covered in blankets, their features indistinguishable from this distance. Farther back was a massive wall of rocks, blocking further access into the cave, the result of a previous cave-in. To the right was a small mound of dirt that marked Liz’s grave. To my great relief, the mound was undisturbed. To the left was a moderate pile of scattered rocks that had been removed from the lower section of the wall of rocks.

  “What are they doing here?” I asked Harim.

  “They remove the rocks, to clear a way through the wall.”

  I nodded, then raised my voice: “Rise and shine, sleepy-heads.”

  From the center of the camp, two heads rose from the dirt floor. Both men had been sleeping on their arms, in a rather crude fashion. One of them was an older man with a thin face and frazzled gray hair. Faye shrieked with joy and sprinted across the cave.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Her father was about what I had expected.

  A man in his late fifties. Gray hair worn long over his collar, parted down the middle and slightly mussed from sleep. He looked like Einstein, if Einstein had bothered to use a comb. He was dressed in dirty jeans and a dirty flannel shirt, and smelled like a stray dog. But that didn’t stop Faye from wrapping her arms around the startled man, who was fumbling around with one hand near his blanket until he found a pair of wire-rim glasses, cracked in one corner. He hastily put them on, completing the look of the eccentric professor.

  Wally Krispin was sitting cross-legged, knees as sharp as arrows, next to the glowing bed of coals. The student’s narrow face was criss-crossed with red lines, the result of sleeping on the sleeve of his jacket. His thick brown hair was wildly disheveled, and he appeared malnourished—in fact, both of them did. And depending on how long they had been held in captivity, that just might be a possibility. I could see that both Caesar’s and Wally’s fingertips were cracked with scabs. Neither seemed concerned that I was holding a very deadly weapon at the ready.

  “My darling, Faye,” said professor Caesar Roberts, wrapping both arms around his daughter. His voice was groggy and frog-like, a combination of sleep and cold-like symptoms.

  Faye said nothing. She held on tight and I could see that she was crying pretty hard. I kept quiet, although I was feeling the strong urge to get everyone moving, as our time was quickly running out. Harim seemed to be watching with interest, perhaps visualizing his own homecoming.

  Wally was saying over and over that he could not believe Faye was here. But no one seemed to be listening to Wally except me. The kid’s voice was surprisingly soft-spoken. He was either shy or polite. I couldn’t decide which.

  Faye pulled away and nodded toward me. “Father, this is Sam Ward. He helped me find you.”

  Caesar Roberts looked at me, confused eyes flicking to the weapon. He turned back to his daughter. “Find me?” he asked, perplexed. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Faye blinked, then looked at me for support. I shrugged in a supportive way. She said, “Yes, father, find you. You’ve been missing for a month.”

  He shook his head. A jolly grin spread across his face. It was hard not to like the old guy. “I haven’t been missing,” he said, laughing. “I’ve been right here.”

  I said, “Technically, the man has a point.”

  “You’re not helping, Sam,” she said, ice in her voice. She looked at her father. “You’re being held prisoner, dad. Forced to work like slaves.”

  “No, my dear. This is a partnership, of sorts. The emir and myself are helping one another. He provides food and supplies, and Wally and I provide the labor. This is the cave, Faye. This is the cave on the map!” He clapped his hands excitedly.

  “Father, this is crazy. There are guards outside the cave. You are not permitted to leave—ever!”

  Caesar shook his head. “The guards are to keep people out, my dear. This is a very important operation. Much is at stake.”

  As he spoke, I looked at Wally Krispin. He was frowning and playing with something in his hand, turning it over and over. It was something small and plastic-like. On closer inspection, I could see that it was a baseball card, sheathed protectively in hard plastic, held together by copper screws on each corner. The player on the card could have been a young Mickey Mantle, a baseball bat resting on one shoulder. Wally held the card tight, rubbing a thumb over the plastic as if it were a talisman. Although the kid wasn’t voicing his opinion, he did not appear agreeable to his professor’s position.

  “Valuable card,” I said, stepping closer to have a look.

  He looked up at me. Dirt was in his hair, in the corners of his eyes. “I collect them,” he said. “But this is my favorite. 1951 Mickey Mantle rookie card. My good luck charm. It’s kept me alive so far.”

  I looked at my watch for no real reason. It seemed the thing to do. “Kids,” I said. “We should be leaving very soon.”

  “Father, the Arab and his men will be here at any moment. We must leave now.”