Five customers remained at this late hour, sitting in wooden chairs of varying degrees of solidity, talking amongst themselves, some louder than others.

  Pascal was behind the bar, cleaning glasses with a rag that could have used some cleaning itself. A good kid. Nineteen years old. Whip-thin. Always a smile on his face, which said a lot. Because he didn’t have much to smile about. Both his parents were killed by Kurdish guerrillas, a bomb left in a duffel bag on their bus, leaving Pascal to raise a kid sister in a small apartment on the east side of town. During the day he studied accounting, via a correspondence course from the university in Istanbul. The correspondence course had been my idea.

  He saw me and smiled from ear to ear. “I was getting worried, Sam bey.” He used the word bey as a sign of respect, or if he wanted to borrow some money.

  “Anything exciting happen while I was gone?” I asked.

  He pointed to a broken chair in the corner of the room. Two of its legs were gone. “Just one fight, Sam bey. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  I grinned. Although Pascal was small, he was tough. I motioned with my thumb. “Hit the road, kid.”

  Pascal pocketed his earnings and untied his apron and hung it on a hook over the sink. He flashed me another grin. “By the way, the American woman came by tonight and asked me to give you this.”

  Pascal held up two twenty-dollar bills attached to a note. The note was short, with big flowing letters: Sorry for sticking you with the bill. I hope this covers it. The lamb was excellent, by the way.

  Pascal was grinning. “She is very pretty, Sam bey.”

  “I know.”

  When the kid left, I took up the position of honor behind the counter, staring at the note. I poured myself a splash of brandy. A short while later, I poured another.

  “At least she didn’t stick me with the bill,” I said to the splash of brandy. The brandy didn’t respond, of course. But if I had a few more shots, it just might.

  Later, an older woman came in through the open double doors. She was three sheets to the wind, weaving this way and that as if she were a detective on a crooked trail. As always, she was beautiful, elegant and stately. She was, of course, Camilla Constantine. My Greek friend.

  Chapter Eight

  Camilla was my self-appointed spiritualist and oracle, reading much into my words and actions, coming up with some amazing prognostications. Most were ridiculous. Some were humorous. And a few were deadly accurate. Of course, those were the ones that made me nervous. Then again, even a blind harpoonist can hit the ocean.

  “You look good, Camilla,” I said. “Drunk, but good.”

  Camilla sat before me at the bar and shrugged out of a red silk business jacket with ivory buttons. She hung the jacket on the back of the barstool, its black silk inner lining shining under the dusty lightbulbs above.

  I placed a glass of raki, made from distilled raisins, before her, a favorite of Camilla’s. She promptly tilted it back and drained the glass dry and motioned for another.

  “Rough day?” I asked, pouring.

  “Sometimes I would like to kill all men,” she said in English, her voice deep and heavily accented. Sort of sexy. “I would like to kill them all one at a time. And slowly.”

  I stepped back. She continued. “Men think they can cheat me. But not tonight. I sent two of them on their way. They will never do business with me again, and it is their loss. Men, Sam, are assholes.”

  “Don’t look now, Camilla, but you happen to be seated across from an asshole now.”

  “None of the above applies to you, Sam.” She reached out and patted my cheek with a warm palm. “Though I should grab your ear and shake some sense into you.”

  “Is that a Greek form of foreplay?”

  She shook her head, irritated. When she was drunk, she didn’t find me as cute as usual. “I send a beautiful American young woman your way, and you turn her away as if she were diseased.”

  I raised my forefinger to counter that accusation, but Camilla had moved on. When Camilla speaks, one needs more than a forefinger to break in. “But that’s okay, Sam. You had your reasons. Yes, what she asks is stupid and foolish. But she is pretty and nice. I thought you two were right for each other. She was a good omen. After all, you are both Americans.”

  I shook my head. “There’s more to a relationship than nationality, Camilla.”

  “But I knew you would take care of that girl. I don’t trust the other guides.” Camilla sighed and took a breath, sitting back in the stool. “However, Faye Roberts is a big girl. Her own iron will got her here. And it is her own iron will that keeps her here now.”

  “So she didn’t leave?” I asked. I tried to sound casual, but the excitement was there in my voice. For now, the Academy Award was safe.

  “Of course she didn’t leave,” said Camilla. “She will not be denied, Sam. I have recommended she speak with Niksar.”

  “Niksar?” I leaned forward across the counter, frowning.

  Camilla shrugged and raised her eyebrows. “At least he will not take advantage of her. He is a decent man.”

  “But a horrible guide. You’ll get her killed. Has she spoken with Niksar yet?”

  “She has a meeting with him tomorrow morning at eight.”

  “What room is she in?”

  “Sam,” said Camilla. “Don’t you dare wake that child now. She has had a long day. If you want to speak with her, you will do so tomorrow morning.”

  I was breathing hard.

  “You seem upset, Sam,” said Camilla sweetly.

  “You know damn well why I’m upset. And you know what I think of Niksar. Twice he’s gotten himself lost on Ararat. The man is a horrible guide, which is probably why you suggested him.” I took a breath, seeing red. “I feel as if you’ve scripted my every move.”

  She tried to look shocked, but the wicked gleam in her eye gave her away. The woman could damn well make a mouse chase a cat.

  “She is a good sign,” said Camilla. “It is not often that a beautiful American girl shows up alone looking for your help.”

  “But she’s asking the impossible.”

  “She’s asking for your help to search for her missing father,” said Camilla gently. “She needs peace of mind. She needs to know that she at least tried, Sam. Sometimes, that makes it easier to deal with the loss. I have dealt with such loss. I understand.”

  In that instant, Camilla looked old and tired. Fine vertical lines spread away from her lips, merging with the other lines of her face. Lines women pay thousands of dollars to erase. She had dealt with her own loss, a lifetime of killed husbands and sons. Three sons and two husbands, to be exact, lost through war and disease.

  “You are her only hope, Sam.”

  I said nothing.

  “And maybe she’s your only hope, too,” said Camilla.

  “What the devil does that mean?”

  “You’ve been here a long time, Sam. Don’t you get homesick?”

  “The word implies one has a home and a family. I have neither,” I said. “You sound like you’re trying to get rid of me.”

  “You’re a gifted photojournalist,” she said. “You have much to offer the world, but you can’t do so if you waste your life away here, in the back of beyond.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but closed it again. At this hour I had little argument left in me, and Camilla was probably right. I lit a cigarette and sat on the corner of the metal sink behind me.

  “A vile habit,” she said, motioning to the cigarette.

  “I agree. Filthy.” I shivered to show my revulsion. Then took another drag.

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “A suicidal desire to know how I’m going to die.”

  We were quiet. Steely Dan played from the chrome and glass jukebox on the opposite wall. The jukebox was shipped over from the United States. What’s a bar without a jukebox? When she finished her raki, I helped her into her coat, even buttoning it up for her. Together, we exited the bar and stepped out into the cool night air.

  “Help her, Sam.”

  I stood there in the cold night air, shivering. I could have used a jacket myself.

  “You’re a good man, but you do not belong here. Dogubayazit is not your home. You need to move on.” And with that, she left. I watched her go, swaying into the night, disappearing into the brightly lit foyer of the hotel next door, where she lived in a spacious suite on the fourth floor.

  I lit another cigarette and stepped back into the bar, closing the doors behind me.

  Chapter Nine

  At 7:34 a.m., we were seated at a counter in the Gule Gule’s cafe.

  I had ordered bork for us, a fine Turkish pastry. I was sipping grapefruit juice and Faye Roberts was staring into a small cup of Turkish coffee. She was dressed in black jeans and a red long-sleeved shirt, cowboy-like. Her hair was up in a ball, held in place by a few strategically placed hairpins. She didn’t appear to be wearing make-up, but I could have been wrong. Anyway, she didn’t need any.

  “You look like hell,” she told me.

  “Thanks,” I said, yawning on cue. “It’s still the middle of the night for me.”

  “Have some coffee,” she said.

  “I can’t.”

  She looked at me over her tiny coffee mug. “Can’t or won’t?”

  I nodded. “I have an aversion to coffee that tastes like mud.”

  “Then this must be pretty important.”

  The blond pine walls were bare, save for the occasional early Impressionistic painting. Reprint, of course. The café was half full. Ever the optimist. We were alone at the counter, although I could hear the cook whistling in the kitchen. Another morning person. One of them.

  “I want you to know,” I said, “that Camilla has been strumming us like a six string.”

  Her eyes narrowed behind the tiny coffee cup. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s playing matchmaker, thinks she knows what’s best for me. For us.”

  “And she thinks I’m what’s best for you?” Faye laughed pleasantly. “And that you’re what’s best for me?”

  “You just happen to be the first American woman to come this way. Perhaps ever. And I just happen to be the best guide in Dogubayazit.”

  “Or so rumor has it,” she said. “So what makes you so good?”

  I sipped the bittersweet juice, and tried not to make a grapefruit face. “It’s my guarantee.”

  “Guarantee?” She sounded dubious.

  “Uh huh. If you don’t think I’ve done one helluva job, then you get your money back.”

  “That’s good to know. So how many times have you ascended Mount Ararat?”

  I did the math. We were quiet a while. “Over fifty,” I said eventually.

  She sipped her coffee, and seemed to enjoy it, which was beyond my comprehension. “So you know the mountain well?”

  “I wouldn’t call us sweethearts, but mutually respectful friends, surely.”

  The cook ruthlessly banged pots, whistled more happy tunes. An older man sat down next to me. He smiled, and I grinned back, until I realized he was smiling at Faye Roberts. Faye smiled back politely.

  “Pretty women get all the smiles,” I muttered.

  “You think I’m pretty?” she asked, grinning.

  “Never mind.”

  She stared at me. “So why did you ask to see me, Sam?”

  “Because Camilla knows what she’s doing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She purposefully suggested an alternate guide for you to use, one for whom I have a low opinion.”

  Faye Roberts made sipping noises around the coffee mug. She waited.

  “So I’m here to rectify the situation,” I said.

  “Really?” she said, raising her eyebrow. “Or do you just like to say rectify? Never mind, I don’t want to know. Niksar will be here in ten minutes, I believe.”

  I shook my head. “I took care of that. Niksar is aware that plans have changed.”

  Our food came, served by an older woman in a hair net. Faye ignored the food. Instead, she stared at me with increasingly narrowing eyes until she looked like a hatless cowboy riding into the sunset. “Couldn’t you have just recommended a different guide, one for whom you have a higher opinion?”

  I shrugged. “To be honest, I had hoped you would go away. But, seeing that you’re determined to climb the mountain, I won’t trust your safety to anyone else. So now I’m forced to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Keep me out of trouble? Sam Ward, I don’t need your charity work.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  She thought about that, then nodded. “Then I insist on paying you triple your asking price,” she said two bites later.

  “And I insist on accepting your payment.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “I’ll need at least a day to prepare.” I said.

  “What do I need to bring?”

  “Four or five days worth of undergarments. I’ll bring everything else. Of course, you will carry your fair share.”

  Faye grinned. “Of course. I’ve backpacked numerous times.”

  “Numerous is good,” I said.

  “Is there going to be much rock climbing?”

  I shook my head. “Most of Ararat can be ascended on foot, following well-worn sheep and goat trails, without the use of carabiners and rope ladders. However, we will be roped together for safety’s sake when we reach the glaciers.”

  The old man continued to smile at Faye. She ignored him. I finished the bork and wiped my mouth on a paper napkin. Instead of finishing hers, Faye placed some Turkish currency on the counter, enough to pay for her own breakfast.

  “Tomorrow then?” she said, standing.

  “Before first light,” I said.

  When she left, I promptly speared her bork over to my plate.

  Chapter Ten

  Later that morning, working in the small, hot storage room next to my upstairs office, I selected pairs of long underwear, wind- and rain-resistant nylon/polyurethane jackets, a dozen or so pairs of synthetic socks, insulated wool caps, insulated wool/polyester pants, gaiters, compass, altimeter, isobutane fuel stove, flashlights, plastic topographic map of Ararat, sunglasses, first-aid supplies, aluminum pots, pocketknives, matches, ice axes, crampons, carabiners, snow shovels, and kernmantle ropes. And more. All of which I packed into two internal frame backpacks. Lastly, I selected two four-season expedition tents. One tent might have been presumptuous.

  Downstairs, I opened a bottle of beer, dipping into my stock again. I lose more money that way. As I leaned against the counter, contemplating the many mysteries of life, and whether or not I should have a second beer, the bar’s front doors opened.

  The mid-day sun illuminated the scarred floor at the entrance. Two silhouetted figures stood in the doorway. One figure was abnormally tall, head rising above the door frame. The other was tall, as well, but not abnormally so. The smaller of the two appeared to be wearing a headcloth, which was not uncommon in these parts.

  “I’ll be open in an hour,” I said in Turkish. “Although the big fellow can do whatever the hell he wants.”

  “I’m not here for drinks, my friend, although that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.” The voice was filled with pride and arrogance. And a touch of humor. The humor always made him sound sadistic. I knew the voice well.

  Emir Omar Ali stepped into the bar, and his massive bodyguard, Farid Bastian, followed silently, ducking under the door frame. He closed the door gently behind him and stood quietly off to the side, shoulders hunched forward as if his arms were too heavy to support.

  “May we come in, Mr. Ward?” asked Omar Ali.

  “How much more in do you want to be, emir?” I said.

  Omar shook his head. “I can always count on you, Mr. Ward, to put me in my place. There are those who would fear for their lives if they spoke to me in such a manner.”

  “I think I just piddled myself.”

  He shook his head. “You are a typical American, Mr. Ward. Insulting and discourteous.”

  “A nation of assholes.”

  Omar Ali stepped from the shadows and into the dim light of the bar, and I saw him clearly for the first time. I stared, shocked. Since our expedition two years ago, he had lost much weight, enough to reveal the dark hollows of his cheeks and temples. As always, his thick mustache was immaculately trimmed, flecked with gray. His deep-set eyes studied me from under a heavy brow. There was something different about his eyes, something that wasn’t there two years ago. Desperation, perhaps. Fatigue. Or both.

  “You’re dying,” I said suddenly.

  He inhaled loudly, the air rattling in his throat. Omar closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his sunken chest. His stomach seemed inverted. I could see his ribs through the fabric of his robe. “Yes, Mr. Ward. In fact, I should be dead now. I was given six months to live. That was three years ago. My strength is gone, and so is my fight. I have, since last we met, rapidly deteriorated.” His rheumy eyes studied me dispassionately. “As you know, Mr. Ward, I’m engaged in a highly classified operation upon Ararat.”

  “I just love secrets.”

  He continued as if I had not spoken. “I am here for two reasons. First, I’ve come to ask you a question.” From his robe, the emir removed a thick envelope and set it on the counter before me. I glanced inside. Lots of hard currency.

  “You didn’t have to rob a bank just for me, emir.”

  “Your expertise could prove invaluable.”

  I motioned toward one of the round tables. “I can hardly wait to see what I know.”

  Using a silent command, perhaps a dog whistle, his bodyguard moved forward from the shadows and pulled a wooden chair from the table. The emir sat slowly and (like any good date) the bodyguard pushed him back in. I sat opposite the emir. Farid moved back into the shadows.

  “What do you know of Jans Struys?” asked Omar.

  I drank my beer, and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. A baboonish gesture. The emir watched me curiously, as if I were an exhibit at the zoo. Finally, I said, “Struys was a Seventeenth Century adventurer and soldier and part-time surgeon. He would have disappeared into obscurity if not for his association with Noah’s ark.” I paused, getting my facts straight. And for dramatic reasons, of course. “Struys claimed to have seen and touched Noah’s ark.”