“What the hell do you want?” he said.

  “Good to see you, too, Daveed,” I said.

  “Always a wise guy,” he said. “I don’t have time for you, merkep.” Merkep means asshole, of course.

  He made a move to close the door. I moved too and held the door open with my hand. “You were going to invite me in....”

  Turkish hospitality is legendary. Hosts starve to ensure guests have an abundance of food. In fact, the amount of one’s guests directly relates to one’s status within the community: the more guests, the more your status rises.

  Perhaps Daveed was unaware of this social custom.

  “Go to hell, erkeklik yala.” Cocksucker.

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  The movement was fast, and suddenly a small handgun appeared in my face. It was a .22 caliber Beretta, with a silencer, the official weapon of the Mossad katsas. Daveed was not Mossad. The gun was steady, Daveed’s index finger wrapped tightly around the trigger. The knuckles of his index finger were white.

  To hesitate would have been a mistake. I pushed the door forward with the palm of my hand. The door smacked Daveed in the forehead. He was thrown backwards, off-balance, recoiling on the balls of his feet. The gun flew up from his swinging arm and clattered across on the floor. I stepped in and punched Daveed in the jaw and he landed hard on his backside.

  I picked up the gun and stuck it in my waistband behind my back, the metal cold against my flesh. Daveed’s beer bottle had tumbled end over end, coming to a stop against a potted fern, foaming profusely. I stood over the bottle and shook my head. Such reckless waste.

  Daveed was a small-time hood who considered himself dangerous. He had developed a reputation of being a tough guy. Apparently, he had killed a man in a land far, far away. Convenient. Maybe it had been Darth Vader. Daveed picked himself up and sat heavily in a leather recliner in the living room. The chair creaked and groaned under his considerable weight.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said, holding his jaw in a way that suggested it hurt to speak.

  I closed the door behind me, lit another cigarette. The bathroom was to my left. I glanced inside and flicked a lightswitch. End-of-the-world disarray. Towels, pants, shirts, socks and skivvies in every nook, cranny and corner. Some of the smaller clothing were women’s. A tiny kitchen was to my right, containing only a stove and refrigerator. The door to the fridge was slightly ajar. Cold frost issued out. A hard-looking roll sat in one corner of the linoleum floor.

  I moved down the short hall and entered the living room, which doubled as the bedroom, and saw what I had expected to see. A woman was sitting up in bed, the comforter pulled over her breasts, which appeared ample. Her kinky black hair hung down over the comforter. I didn’t know her, nor did I want to. Her face was broad and pale, lips pouty. She didn’t appear surprised to see me. Perhaps it was a common occurrence for Daveed to have guests punch him in the face. She busied herself by examining her fingernails, which were long and desert orange. In the process, some of the comforter slipped down, exposing more of her right breast. Ample, indeed. No one bothered to introduce me to the woman, which was just fine.

  “I didn’t know your sister was in town, Daveed,” I said. He said nothing, perhaps waiting for the stars inside his head to go away. I knew the feeling well.

  “Go to hell,” said the woman, speaking Armenian. Folks in this part of the world speak either Turkish, Arabic or Armenian, and most knew at least a smattering of all three. Her voice was high-pitched. Irritatingly so. My ear drums felt assaulted.

  “It’s better when you keep quiet,” I said to her in the same language. One of her bare legs slid off the bed, her painted toes touching the floor. The calf was smooth and strong, and could have supported a horse. It was rare to see so much skin on an Armenian woman. Maybe this was my lucky day.

  “And judging by this room,” I said to her in the same language, “I may already be in hell.”

  “Godamn you, merkep,” said Daveed, but his voice was unsteady.

  I looked at him. “A month ago you illegally led Professor Caesar Roberts and his graduate student, Wally Krispin, onto Mount Ararat. But you made it back and they didn’t. So, tell me, what happened to the Americans?”

  Daveed suddenly lunged forward, a long steel blade flashing in his hands, concealed within the recliner for just such an occasion. Had I not side-stepped him, he would have happily disemboweled me. I hit him behind his ear and he fell forward and lay on his side, moaning. He landed on his face and broke his nose.

  The woman screamed and threw a pillow at me. Luckily, I dodged the fluffy projectile. I picked Daveed up by the shoulder and deposited him back in the recliner. Next, I rummaged through his kitchen and returned with a flower print hand towel. He took it from me and held it to his nose, wincing. Blood instantly soaked the dirty towel.

  I motioned toward his recliner. “Anything else in that bag of tricks?” I asked.

  The woman was still squawking. I told her to be quiet. She didn’t listen. I threw the pillow back at her and she looked at me, shocked, but at least she was quiet. I turned my attention back to Daveed. “Tell me about the Americans,” I said.

  “Screw the Americans.”

  “That’s where you’re supposed to turn and spit vehemently.”

  He blinked at me dumbly.

  “Never mind,” I said. “What became of the Americans?”

  “How am I supposed to know, merkep? The old man dismissed me once we arrived at the base of the mountain.” He pulled the towel away and looked at it, frowning. His face was pale, probably because most of his blood was in the towel. “I think you broke my nose.”

  “Yes.”

  He swallowed. “I never heard from them again. The old man was an accomplished climber. They had adequate mountaineering equipment—a detailed topography map of Ararat, compass, altimeter, etc. And they had enough clothing and food.”

  I studied him. He disgusted me, and the woman didn’t help my feelings of repulsion. “I will hold you personally responsible for their safety, Daveed.”

  He said nothing. I decided there was nothing else to be gained here, and as I moved toward the front door, the woman hurled an Armenian insult, comparing me to a monkey’s ass. It loses some flavor with translation.

  Outside, in the rain behind the hotel, I found a foul-smelling dumpster. I removed the gun from my waist and shoved it deep between two white plastic bags.

  Chapter Six

  We were seated at the Sicak Patates. Hot Potatoes.

  The dining room was elegant by Dogubayazit standards, perhaps the nicest in town. Small glass tables. Slender red candles. Menus long and leather-bound. I wore Levis and a plaid flannel. Faye was dressed in black silk pants and a shimmery silver blouse that captured the candlelight and returned it a thousandfold. She seemed well-rested, and in a better disposition, although her lips were still pressed into a thin line, barely displaying the matte mauve lipstick she was wearing. A spot of wine shimmered on her lower lip. Her green eyes were the color of a tropical lagoon. Tonight, her hair was parted to the left, bangs curled just below her eyes. She was the prettiest woman in the room.

  I told her of my conversation with Daveed Hammid, leaving out the part about the ample breast. The waiter came by and I ordered sea bass for myself and lamb for her.

  When the waiter left, Faye leaned forward on her elbows, and said, “So there’s a chance my father may still be on the mountain,” she stated firmly. I was noticing that most things about Faye were firm.

  “Sure,” I said. “But whether or not he’s alive is the question.”

  She sat back, crossed her arms under her chest.

  “Ever the optimist,” she said.

  Although the rain had stopped hours ago, the big window next to us revealed a sodden street and dark skies beyond. I was drinking Turkish beer, and she the house Chablis. We were, I noticed, the only ones drinking alcohol. I lit a cigarette, offering her one. She shook her head, although her conviction was waning.

  There were no laws in Turkey about smoking in public places. Turks love to smoke, and they do so everywhere. In fact, a haze of the gray stuff hovered just below the ceiling, roiling in a mini storm cloud.

  There was a lull in the conversation. I hate lulls.

  “So what is it that you do back home?” I asked, squinting through the smoke, realizing for the first time that this felt like a date.

  I swallowed and broke out in a sweat. She didn’t notice.

  Instead, she picked up her wine glass between her thumb and forefinger and swirled the contents, which came dangerously close to spilling over the edge, but didn’t. I studied her as she did so. She sat straight in her chair, chin forward. She looked up at me with clear, unblinking eyes.

  “I teach archaeology at USC,” she said. “Or, more accurately, paleo-linguistics.”

  “Ah. The study of ancient languages,” I said. “Just like your father.”

  “Very good, Mr. Ward. However, unlike my father, who gave it all up, I’m still doing original research in the field of Mayan cryptology.”

  I thumbed through my mental image of her father’s book. “Your father gave up his tenure at USC to take a position at Southern California Christian to pursue Biblical archaeology, I believe.”

  “You could say I filled the void left by his vacancy. Father is a foolish man, and a dreamer. He seeks to add validity to his faith, which, I think, is an oxymoron.”

  When the waiter brought our food, Faye’s eyes widened with pleasure. I think she was ravenous. We both were, and ate quickly. The waiter took our plates and we ordered more drinks, another beer for me and a Turkish coffee for her. When he returned with our drinks, Faye picked up the tiny porcelain coffee cup and smiled.

  “Positively Lilliputian,” she said.

  “But with a Brobdingnagian kick,” I said.

  She nodded her linguistic approval. Somewhere, Jonathan Swift and maybe even Gulliver, were rolling in their graves. Faye tasted the strong coffee, and seemed to like it. The waiter came back and asked me if we would like dessert. I said dessert was against the young lady’s religion. He shrugged and left. Outside, people strolled by the window, watching us drink. I watched them watching us drink. Cars with broken headlights rolled one way. Cars with broken taillights rolled the other.

  Faye asked, “So why’s the mountain closed?”

  I shook my head. “Good question. No one knows for sure, and those who do aren’t talking.”

  “Camilla mentioned something about an Arab prince.”

  “Emir Omar Ali, a Saudi Arabian prince of tremendous wealth. He’s also a well-known adventurer. In fact, the National Geographic did an article on his attempt to cross Antarctica. The attempt failed, by the way, with three of his team members forever lost. Now his passion has turned to Noah’s Ark. He has ascended the mountain on three separate occasions, myself leading the way on the second attempt. Let me assure you, Miss Faye, he’s a royal pain-in-the-ass, although I got along well with his personal bodyguard. Must be the peasant blood in me.”

  “So what does the Arab prince have to do with the mountain being closed?”

  I sipped my beer, placing it directly in the center of the square white napkin. Bullseye.

  “That’s the rub. While the Turkish military patrols the base of Ararat, the Arab and his men ascend the mountain regularly in helicopters, bringing up a constant stream of supplies from a secured airbase just outside of Dogubayazit. Even the shepherds who live on the mountain with their herds of sheep are forced to stay away. All in all, it’s very detrimental to the guiding business.”

  “Is it common to close the entire mountain?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Depends. Kurdish terrorists often seek refuge on Ararat, or use it as a training ground. The Turkish military often perform sweeps, clearing the area of all illegal activity. But the military doesn’t generally remove the peaceful shepherds who have lived on the mountain for centuries.”

  “So what do you think is going on?” Faye Roberts asked.

  “Some in Dogubayazit speculate that Omar might have found Noah’s Ark, and is currently digging it free. Those who subscribe to conspiracy theories think he’s a spy or a terrorist. Either way, gossip is alive and well in Dogubayazit.”

  I signaled the waiter for another beer. Faye declined more coffee with the international shake of her head. I rubbed my full belly, vaguely considering undoing the top button of my jeans.

  “Could this Omar Ali have anything to do with my father’s disappearance?”

  “Anything’s possible. But more than likely—”

  “More than likely my father’s buried under an avalanche. I know,” she said bitterly. She had twisted her cloth napkin into a rope. Or noose.

  I said, “Let’s make one thing perfectly clear, Miss Faye. Mount Ararat is as dangerous as they come. In fact, it can be a deathtrap to those who don’t know what the hell they’re doing. Your father, according to Daveed, went off on his own. Mount Ararat without a guide is like sailing in rough seas without a rudder.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She set her coffee cup down. Loudly.

  “My father is an experienced climber.”

  Diners seated around us looked at us curiously. I recognized one, a big man with black hair greased straight back, olive skin shining in the candlelight. He was my banker, which might explain why I couldn’t remember his name. I waved; he nodded. He turned back to his slender wife, who completely ignored us.

  I was silent, watching Faye. My plan of dissuading her from climbing the mountain was rapidly crumbling to pieces.

  “I know the odds of finding him are slim, Sam, but I have to try. He’s my father, after all.”

  I took a big breath. It was time to end this nonsense.

  “I may be the only one who tells it to you straight, Faye, as there are others here in Dogubayazit who will surely take advantage of you. What you hope to accomplish is impossible and foolish. Your father is dead, and so is his student. You are wasting your time and money. It would be best if you got on the next bus from Dogubayazit and left. There is much trouble to be had here.”

  She held my gaze without blinking, lips disappearing into a thin, bloodless line. Cheekbones crimson. It was a full minute later when she finally spoke, and she did so slowly and carefully.

  “I am under the impression, perhaps delusion, that it makes sense to look for those who are missing, no matter how improbable the odds.” She stood. “I thank you for your frankness, Mr. Ward. After the way you’ve put it, there’s nowhere to go but up.”

  I did something that surprised even me: I gripped her narrow wrist, and pulled her down to eye level. She made no move to break free.

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “You could die up there.”

  “I will take my chances, Mr. Ward. I owe my father that much.”

  She stared at me. I had expected to see tears in her eyes. There were none. Only firm determination. A look like that could conquer nations. Or mountains.

  I released my hold. She paused only briefly before leaving the restaurant. I watched her go. So did some of the other men. The waiter came by, glanced briefly at the empty chair. Then handed me the bill.

  “Well,” I whispered. “That went well.”

  Chapter Seven

  I stepped out of the restaurant and into the cool night air.

  The rain had come and gone, leaving Dogubayazit in muddy ruins. I picked my way carefully over the broken cobblestone sidewalk, slipping once or twice in the slime that had washed up from the street. I was slightly drunk, having celebrated my failure to dissuade her attempt to climb the mountain with a few more beers.

  Faye Roberts was headstrong and reckless. And those were two characteristics that can get you killed on Ararat. Her father had probably been the same way.

  I turned my collar up and shoved my hands deep into my pockets.

  Faye Roberts wasn’t my concern. I had done my best to discourage her. And she hadn’t listened.

  “Stubborn broad,” I mumbled.

  The shops were closed. The streets empty. The cobblestone sidewalk morphed into a long swath of black mud. My hiking boots made sucking noises with each step. Water drip-dripped everywhere. In the far distance I saw a flash of headlights, heard the grind of a very old motor as the vehicle turned down a side street and disappeared. The air was crisp, and there was the sweet smell of rain on the wind, perhaps the promise of more to come.

  Faye Roberts had looked gorgeous tonight. The designer of that silver blouse should receive a fashion award. Or a handshake. It had shimmered in all the right places.

  I turned onto a larger street. There were more hotels here, all glowing invitingly at this late hour, foyers brightly lit. Ten minutes later, I stopped in front of my bar with its double doors wide open as dim yellow light issued across the sidewalk. I paused and lit a cigarette. Which turned the pause into something more than a pause.

  I leaned against the wooden door frame, smoking contentedly, staring out into the quiet night. Somewhere a dog barked, a deep-throated mean-sounding bark. Another dog responded. This one more of a yipe. This went on for some time until both pooches were suitably caught-up on the night’s gossip.

  The wooden sign above me creaked in the wind. A dirty spotlight illuminated the sign, revealing three hand-painted English words: The Watering Hole.

  I like to keep things simple.

  I took one last drag from the cigarette and flicked it away and stepped into the near-empty bar.

  ***

  Like the name, the bar itself was simple.

  There were a half dozen of the requisite neon lights on the stained pine walls. Round tables scarred with cigarette burns, knife blades, fingernails and sharp elbows. Two ancient ceiling fans, powered by exposed leather belts, did little to disperse the pall of white smoke that hung suspended in the air. A typical bar, even in Eastern Turkey.