The emir shrugged. “There are many such eyewitnesses.”

  “True. However, most eyewitnesses put the ark within a glacier or perched somewhere within an ice cliff. Jans Struys, however, has a different story.”

  Emir Omar sat forward and put his weight on his elbows. Obviously, he was unable to contain his excitement. “Please continue, Mr. Ward.”

  “After Struys cured an Armenian shepherd of what must have been a world-class hernia, the thankful shepherd, who lived on Mount Ararat, showed Struys a secret route to Noah’s ark. The route involved a series of tunnels within the mountain. According to legend, the tunnels lead to a massive cavern of ice, and within the cavern is the ark.” I grinned and drank some warm beer. “That’s Struys’s story. Even in ark lore, it’s pretty wild.”

  “Has anyone ever come across these tunnels?” asked Omar.

  I shook my head. “Many have looked. Although Ararat is riddled with caves and tunnels, no one has ever found an extensive network of them. Which is why Struys’s story is considered nothing more than fantasy.”

  The emir studied his thick, perfectly manicured fingernails. Perhaps the only thick and healthy thing on his body. He rubbed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger, hand shaking terribly. “Did Struys mention something that would indicate the secret tunnel? A marker, perhaps?”

  I nodded. “The marker is a narrow protrusion of rock which Struys describes as an arthritic finger, gnarled at the joints. The marker would indicate the secret tunnel.” I paused and looked Omar in the eye. “When did you discover the marker, emir?”

  He was quiet, then shrugged as if he had nothing to lose. “Perhaps a month ago, or more. But the tunnel is blocked by a cave-in. We have men clearing it now, but there is little headway due to the extent of the cave-in. Your comments have satisfied my curiosity, Mr. Ward, for I have been relying on the questionable advice of others.”

  “Is that what this is all about?” I asked, exasperated. “Is that why the whole mountain is closed? Because of the goddamn marker, which in fact could be a fluke?”

  Omar’s skull grinned. “No, Mr. Ward. There is much more going on here than a marker, more than you may ever know. The secret tunnel just happens to be a bonus, more for my archaeologist than me, of course, as I care little for what he may or may not find in the tunnel.”

  “What do you want then, emir? Why are you here?”

  He seemed about to speak, but then paused. Farid, the stone-faced bodyguard, appeared suddenly interested in the conversation, but then that could have been just gas. Omar looked at me, “I’m here for revenge, Sam.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He simply sighed and shook his head. He was done talking.

  As he stood, I continued pushing, “Last month, two American scientists disappeared on Ararat, about the same time you found your marker.” I let my words hang in the air for a moment. “This would be a coincidence, correct?”

  Omar turned, his smile revealing his sharp canine teeth, a wolfish smile. “I can hardly be responsible for the safety of two men foolish enough to trespass upon Mount Ararat.”

  I drained the last of the beer, considering the significance of his words. “And how did you know, emir, that both American scientists were men? Was it just a Freudian slip, cultural bias, or just male arrogance?” I paused, swirling the contents of my near-empty beer bottle. “Or do you know something about their disappearance?”

  Instead of answering, he inhaled deeply, ribs pushing out against the material of his robe, forehead dotted with perspiration. He looked directly into my eyes and held my gaze. “The second reason I’m here, Mr. Ward, is to give you fair warning. My sources tell me that there is an American woman in town, a young college professor. She has come to Ararat to search for her missing father. She will be seeking a guide. Being a fellow American, you are a likely candidate.” Omar paused. “She wishes to illegally obtain access to the mountain, my mountain. This is not wise, my friend. Consider the money as an incentive to stay away. Good day, Mr. Ward.”

  With that, the emir left. And as Farid Bastian followed, he caught my eye. He nodded simply. The heavy door clicked softly shut behind them.

  When they were gone I opened another beer. To hell with inventory.

  Chapter Eleven

  At 4:53 a.m., I was leaning against the fender of my Range Rover in front of my bar, smoking a cigarette and watching a potato chip bag scuttle across the dirt road, sunrise still an hour away. The air was cold and damp, and a faint mist crept along Dogubayazit’s empty dirt streets. The air smelled clean, but also like more rain, too.

  At 4:57 a.m., Faye Roberts emerged from within the Gule Gule. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She moved quickly and confidently. Long, even strides. Probably an athlete in college. Volleyball? Swim team? Full contact bingo? She wore loose-fitting blue jeans and a green windbreaker with a wide white stripe across her chest. Her tan hiking boots were brand spanking new. I shook my head and exhaled a long stream of smoke and silently predicted she would get blisters within an hour of climbing. Her brown hair was pulled back through the rear opening of an L.A. Dodgers baseball cap. She was holding a small, colorful knapsack, pulled tight with a drawstring.

  “Go Dodger blue,” I said when she was close enough to hear.

  “Dodger who?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “You sleep well?”

  She shook her head. “Too nervous and too excited.”

  “Both of which can be detrimental to sleep.”

  She nodded and shoved her hands deep in her pockets, keeping her arms close to her body for warmth. A single horse-drawn cart slowly emerged from the mist. Wearing only a thin white robe, the solitary rider seemed inadequately dressed for the cool morning. As the cart approached, I saw that the driver was an old man, a farmer, with a long gray beard that threatened to swallow his face. Two brown geldings shouldered the load of figs and olives to be sold in Dogubayazit’s open market. I waved to the farmer. He waved back, eyes lingering on Faye. He grinned toothily, and I figured the old man could probably count on one hand the number of American women he had seen. And with Faye Roberts looking fresh and pretty and alert, his perception of American women would be slightly skewed.

  “Are we ready?” asked Faye, rubbing her hands together.

  “Packed and ready,” I said. I opened the rear door and placed her knapsack with the backpacks, then opened the front passenger door for her. Which apparently was a mistake.

  “Please, Sam, if I need help, I’ll ask for it. I’m here to find my father, not to make friends or to propagate the myth that women are inferior to men.” She took a deep breath and I gulped and tried to shrink away. “I would like to warn you, Sam Ward, that I have taken many self-defense classes and can take care of myself. I don’t want any problems on this trip.”

  “Are you finished making me feel like a sexist pig?”

  Apparently not. “Although Camilla assures me that you are completely trustworthy, spending time alone with a stranger is a frightening prospect. I want your word that you will not try any funny business.”

  I held up my right hand and put my left on an invisible Bible. “I do solemnly swear that I will not engage in any funny business or any gestures of random kindness.”

  She eyed me carefully. I gave her my most serious look. She finally relaxed, exhaling a long stream of frosted air. She slid into the passenger seat and closed the door firmly. I let myself in through the driver’s door and started the engine, which sputtered and coughed. Then roared to life. I shifted gears and headed north into town.

  I maneuvered around the old farmer, who waved again, leaning forward to get a look at Faye. On the corner of Mersin and Alanya, I waited patiently for a young shepherd to regain control of his unruly sheep. He was running this way and that, having a horrible time of it. I turned the Rover off and stepped out into the cool morning.

  “Wait here,” I said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just sit back and enjoy. This should be entertaining.”

  Soon I was chasing sheep up cobbled sidewalks and down flooded gutters. I darted and slashed and would have made Barry Sanders proud. I slipped in mud and sheep gifts, and a short while later, with the woolly beasts under some semblance of control, I returned to the truck, out of breath. Faye’s cheeks, as if pinched by a loving grandmother, were brightly pink.

  “That was entertaining,” she agreed. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

  I moved the Rover forward, and a minute later glanced her way. She was still smiling. A minor victory in trust through humiliation. After all, anyone who would run with the sheep must not be all that bad, right?

  ***

  I stopped the Rover in the middle of Dogubayazit’s massive outdoor market, which covered many dozens of square acres. Although some of the booths were still setting up for the day, others already displayed fruits and vegetables and baked goods, meats, dairy products, grains, pickles, nuts, peaches, grapes, tomatoes, lemons, watermelons, onions, eggplants, potatoes and peppers. Also, fine mohair rugs, pots, clothing and cheap jewelry. One booth sold perfume. That booth always gave me a headache.

  “Want some breakfast?” I asked. “It’s part of the package.”

  “In that case, sure.”

  Faye Roberts attracted most of the attention. Shopkeepers and store owners called out to her, beseeching her to consider their goods. She ignored them all like a pro. At one such stall I selected two loaves of bread; at another a quarter pound of goat cheese.

  Twenty minutes later, we were headed east along the Trabzon-Erzurum-Teheran international transit highway, an unusually excellent asphalt road for this part of the country. Already the highway hummed with traffic. We silently ate our cheese and bread as the motor chugged comfortingly and the eastern sky turned from purple to violet.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Bayazit plain spread to either side of the road in swatches of browns and tans, the colors of coffee-stained teeth, without the bad breath. The plain was sprinkled sparingly with firs, cedars and alders, and liberally with tall grasses and massive sun-bleached boulders. The sky had become pinkish and bright, although actual sunrise was still a few minutes away.

  Hunched forward over the wheel, I was studying the side of the road, headlights on high. Thick foliage lined the road, a product of nearby swampy lands.

  Suddenly I turned the wheel hard, and we went down a dirt embankment and Faye Roberts screamed and dropped her loaf of bread. I plowed through a crop of rhododendrons and fir saplings and waist-high reeds, branches slapping the windshield, doing a number on my paint job. The Rover bounced like a happy hooker, and I fought the wheel bravely and soon we came to a slight clearing.

  I looked at Faye. Face ashen, her right hand clutched the roll bar with the sort of grip that could pinch a cobra’s head off. “Almost missed the turn-off,” I said sheepishly. “As you can see, it’s not the easiest road to spot.”

  She leaned forward, peering out the windshield. We were surrounded by lush plant life, some of which rested on the hood of the Rover. Somewhere a bird chirped.

  “You call this a road?” she asked incredulously.

  “As the saying goes: Once a road, always a road.”

  She shook her head dubiously. Apparently, she wasn’t familiar with that saying.

  With the naked eye, the road was difficult to discern, and admittedly there was very little that was road-like about it. Especially considering there was a massive boulder sitting directly in front of us. However, on my office wall is an aerial photograph of the region, and from above, the road is surely there.

  I picked my way around the boulder and through stunted firs and thorny bushes, destroying crocuses and snowdrops and orchids. The Rover had no problem bounding over the uneven ground and smaller rocks.

  But the bigger boulders posed a problem. Some sat within the road like trolls guarding bridges. Eastern Turkey is a rocky land, the result of millenniums of volcanic activity and grinding glaciers. I was forced to find a clearing around the massive formations, usually angling off the path over smaller shrubs, and in one instance scattering a small herd of ibex feeding on the arid grass.

  A short while later, Faye asked, “Is this the route my father took?”

  “It’s possible, though I don’t detect any recent passage.” I swerved to avoid a cedar which had materialized out of the mist. “Access to the mountain from the north and east would have been too time consuming. More than likely, Daveed led your father this way, coming up from the south. Then again, I could be wrong. After all, Ararat has a base of twenty-five square miles. That’s a lot of mountain to cover.”

  Once on a smooth stretch of bronze-colored earth dotted with clumps of ankle-high grass, I reached into the back seat and grabbed two bottled waters. “Thirsty?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I think I’m getting car sick.”

  “Is it my driving?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It’s always my driving,” I said.

  I stopped the Rover and left the engine running and lit a cigarette. The morning was quiet, with little animal activity, although a red squirrel did appear around the thick bole of a cedar. The little booger watched us nervously, then scurried back behind the safety of the tree. It was about as cute as cute can be.

  Before us, filling the entire windshield, was Mount Ararat. Its continuously snow-capped peak was hidden behind thick cumulus clouds, and from here, the mountain appeared unimaginably massive. Ararat is, in fact, a perfect conical volcano. Detached from any mountainous chains, it’s a free-standing entity reminiscent of Japan’s Mount Fuji, with canyons and lakes and glaciers. And its own weather systems.

  And, some claim, a very old ship.

  We were still seven miles from its base. Faye stared up at the mountain, mouth slightly open. Leaning forward in her seat, she looked up through the windshield as if she were watching the departure of the latest space shuttle.

  “How big is it?” she asked finally.

  “Seventeen thousand, give or take a few hundred feet.”

  “And just how dangerous?” Her words sounded distant and strained, as if Faye were talking behind a wall. Ararat has that effect on people.

  “Supremely.”

  “And you’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”

  “We can still turn back,” I said. “I’ll give you a full refund and even pay for your plane ticket home.”

  She shook her head and set her jaw. Her lips were a thin pencil line. “That’s very generous, Sam. But I’m too close to back away now. Not with my father still up there. So why is the mountain so dangerous?”

  “All mountains are inherently dangerous. But particular to Ararat would be wolves, wild dogs, poisonous snakes, scorpions, brown bears, etc.”

  “Bears?”

  “They’re mostly harmless if you keep your distance. Higher up you have avalanches, gale-force winds, blizzards, electrical storms and hidden crevasses. Those are some of the reasons why the Turkish Department of Interior requires all climbers to use the local guides.”

  She was quiet. I ground the last of the cigarette in the over-flowing ashtray. “Feeling okay?” I asked.

  She nodded and I pressed the gas and we moved forward again.

  Almost immediately, we were forced around a stretch of soft sand that would have mired the Rover. As I struggled with the truck, the sun appeared above the distant foothills, burning away the last of the mist that had been clinging tenaciously to the earth. But with the appearance of the sun, something flashed in the distance. I stopped the Rover.

  “What is it?” Faye asked.

  “Trouble.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I removed a pair of binoculars from the console between us, bringing the object into focus. “It’s a military truck,” I reported. “And a small camp. Maybe three or four soldiers. Sitting around a stove, drinking coffee. Unfortunately, they are guarding this very road.”

  Faye shook her head. I think she still wasn’t convinced that this was a road. “Have they seen us?”

  “Doesn’t appear so. And if they have, they plan on finishing their coffee before doing anything about it.”

  “So what do we do?”

  I scanned the surrounding brush with the field glasses. There. Two or three miles to the east, was another military Jeep, moving slowly over the uneven ground. And near the base of the mountain was yet another vehicle, discernible only by the trailing dirt cloud kicked up by the tires.

  I lowered the binoculars. “It doesn’t look good for the home team, but I’m not without a back-up plan.” I pointed thirty feet ahead of us to where the land seemed to disappear below the horizon and start-up again a few dozen feet away. “It’s an arroyo, a dried riverbed, a one-time tributary from Ararat’s glacial run-off. In hotter summers, with severe glacial melt, the arroyo will transform into a raging river. But now it’s dry and should afford some cover. We should be well hidden.”

  I moved the Rover forward, and out into the open. I knew we were exposed for the time being. But I was willing to gamble that the soldier boys were too sleepy to bother looking up from their coffee mugs. And just as I reached the arroyo, a small round bullet hole appeared in the Rover’s left front fender. I briefly wondered if my insurance would cover that when the report of a rifle echoed down along the arroyo.

  Fifty feet away, hidden in the shadows and leaves of a copse of birches, was another Jeep with two camouflaged soldiers inside. One was leveling a semiautomatic weapon at us, grinning like a villain. We were his early morning target practice. After all, he could always tell his superiors we had resisted arrest.