by D J Mcintosh
“Asklepion was famous as a health spa too,” I added. “A mud bath would be okay, but I think I’d pass on the diagnosis.”
Bennet gave me a quizzical look.
“These rooms were patients’ dormitories, and at night the priests let snakes slither over them. In the morning, diagnosis would be based on their dreams.”
As if to confirm that, we came into a clearing and saw a broken pillar with two snakes carved onto it.
“Helmstetter said he came here to find the snake god. Maybe he associated some form of Satan with the god Asclepius. The staff entwined with a serpent was the god’s emblem.”
“The caduceus?”
“Yes. The traditional insignia for medicine. It symbolizes wisdom.”
Farther on, we found a stone basin in a small open-air plaza. “This must be the sacred pool,” I said. “The waters are supposed to be curative.” The square stone well looked about six feet deep, the water at its bottom lurid green with algae. It looked anything but therapeutic.
A water fountain, crystal clear this time, poured into a carved marble basin from a distinctly modern metal pipe fixed to a stone wall. I’d become fascinated with the mystique of the place—it was beautiful and unnerving at the same time. I emptied my water bottle and bent down to collect some from the fountain. Who knew? It might help counter my night terrors.
Once I’d filled the bottle and capped it, I straightened up. Bennet had disappeared.
I called out to her and got no response. Thinking she’d gone back to shoot more pictures of the round chamber, I retraced our steps and kept calling her. My voice echoed, ghostlike, through the corridor. The sun was fading fast now, so I returned to the plaza. Other than a few stragglers from the group of French teenagers, no one else was there.
I asked one of boys in my imperfect French if they’d seen Bennet. “Avez-vous vu mon ami? La femme avec les cheveux rouges?”
He thought for a second. “Avec jean bleu et chemise blanche?”
“Oui, la même,” I said, elated he’d seen her.
He turned and pointed to the scrubby slope, a field lying outside the amphitheater. “Elle y est allée.”
After thanking him I slipped through a gap in the wall to reach the field, inwardly cursing Bennet for taking off like that. I followed a rough footpath down the slope, but when I surveyed the rocky terrain below me, my heart sank. No sign of her. I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled out her name again. Silence. A cluster of trees partially blocked my view so I continued along the path, aware of the waning light; we had less than an hour left before sundown.
Just past a grove of trees, where the land bordered a clutch of houses marking the perimeter of the ruins, a crumbling fence of small boulders circled a stone hut with a corrugated tin roof built into the side of the hill. There was no door, just an opening about five feet high. When I looked inside and my eyes became adjusted to the gloom, I saw it wasn’t a hut at all but the entrance to some kind of tunnel dug into the side of the hill.
As I peered down the corridor, a square of light shone at its terminus. That gave me some hope: Bennet carried a Maglite in her knapsack to allow her to take better photos in dim interiors. When I stepped forward, something rolled away from my foot. A plastic water bottle of the same kind we’d bought earlier.
Twenty-Nine
The tunnel might have once run under ancient Pergamon. A food-storage facility, or a wine cellar? It was cold and damp and angled steeply downward, stretching for maybe a hundred and fifty feet.
The rectangle of light at the end of the corridor proved to be another opening. I ducked down, stepped through it into another room, and saw Bennet. Relief flooded through me. She was crouched on the ground with the Maglite on. Her camera, propped up with a stone, was aimed at one of the most bizarre objects I’d ever seen: a life-sized bull made entirely of brass, gray with tarnish.
Bennet jumped up when she saw me. “Look at this! What a strange sculpture. Who would have put it here?”
I kept my voice neutral. “It’s not a sculpture. At least, that’s not its real purpose.” I ran my hand over the lifelike sinews in the bull’s neck, rendered in precise detail. Its throat stretched to what would have been the full natural length; its nostrils flared and its mouth yawned open. A large vat had been placed on the flat, earthen floor beneath its belly and a crude door about two feet square was set into its flank. Inside the head would be a network of pipes. I touched the door in the bull’s side. “It’s a torture device called a ‘brazen bull.’ A man would be forced inside it and the door bolted, then a fire was kindled in the vat to roast the victim to death. His screams, channeled through pipes in the head, came out like a mad bull’s bellow.”
Bennet stepped back. “That’s horrific!”
“Why did you just take off like that?” I burst out. “It’s damn lucky I found you.”
“I told you I was coming back and just to wait. Didn’t you hear me?”
She may have said something when I was concentrating on filling the water bottle. “No. How did you end up here, anyway?”
“I returned to the room you said reminded you of a crypt to shoot more photos and ran into that weird guy who’d asked the way to the temple. He said if I really wanted to see something special, I should come here. I didn’t think it would take so long.”
At that moment, we both heard the sound of boots treading down the tunnel. Since Bennet had trained her Maglite on the room, I could see nothing through the doorway. I motioned for her to get down behind the vat and then snatched up her lamp, the only thing I could use as a weapon, and aimed it at the entrance.
The mystery man took a few steps into the room and stopped. He still wore his wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. He gave me a crooked smile. “Well … both birds in one net. You’ve made it too easy for me. Tell your friend to come out from behind the bull or she’ll be the first one to roast.” He had the look of a street fighter, but I was a head taller and figured I could take him. The tone of his voice chilled me. I’d heard it somewhere before. At least I knew this wasn’t Yersan.
He took a step toward me. “I just came to ask you a question.
If you answer it, you get to leave in one piece.”
“Ask away then.” I tightened my fist around the Maglite.
“Which way the Temple of Trajan?” he mimicked—and doubled over with laughter. His hat tumbled to the ground. He straightened up and whipped off his sunglasses. I stared in shock at Nick Shaheen.
“What the hell? You’re supposed to be dead!”
“Don’t tell me you’re disappointed.”
I took two strides over and gave him a quick, hard hug. “God. I can’t believe this. It’s really you.”
Bennet crawled out from behind the bull and stood next to me, demanding to know what was going on.
“This is a good friend of mine—with a very perverted sense of humor,” I said as I let him go and stood back. Nick put out his hand to her. “Great to meet you. I’m Nick.”
I saw new lines in his face; he was younger than me but now appeared older. He still looked more like an enforcer for the Genovese crime family than a decorated lieutenant in the U.S. Special Forces. Silver streaks peppered his lanky black hair and there was a new, grim determination to the set of his jaw. Even when he laughed, it was clear his eyes had lost their old sparkle.
“This place”—he waved nonchalantly at the bull—“was someone’s crazy idea to make money. The property owner, knowing how close he was to hordes of tourists visiting the sites, commissioned the bull and stuck it into this old storage vault that had been on his land since forever. He figured to make a fortune charging admission to see it. The government shut him down in less than a week. They said it wasn’t safe but the real reason lay with the site archaeologists, who claimed it wasn’t in keeping with Pergamon’s image.”
Bennet narrowed her eyes. “How do you know all this?”
“Took the guided tour.”
“Well then,
your little drama is entirely within the spirit of this place, I would think,” she said, feigning a sweet smile.
“Take it easy, Bennet,” I said softly. “If we’re very nice, Nick may just protect our asses in Iran.”
She gave me a long look, then turned, picked up her camera, and went back to taking shots of the bull.
Nick grabbed my arm and steered me out into the tunnel. “Tell her you met me when I was a private contractor in Iraq and don’t mention my surname,” he whispered.
“It’s too late. She’s already read my notes—my account of what we did there. She’s probably already put two and two together. Hard to put anything over on her anyway.”
“Shit. You didn’t mention her in your message to Ali.”
“I know. The last thing I expected was to see you over here.”
He grunted. “Let’s talk about it later.”
Nick had left his rental car in the Pergamon parking lot, so he drove us back to our hotel. I booked a room for him there. Later, I suggested we go out for a bite. Bennet said she was tired from the long day and just wanted to curl up and sort through her photos. Diplomacy wasn’t her strong suit, but I sensed she was giving Nick and me some space to catch up.
We found a family-run restaurant, a hole in the wall really, just a few tables with faded tablecloths and vases of plastic flowers. The air had turned cold as soon as the sun went down, so we were glad of the warmth and cheerful atmosphere inside. A little fire burned brightly in a wood oven and the place smelled of delicious home cooking. The owner brought over a bottle of a heavy-bodied red wine called Papazkarasi. Roughly translated, that meant Black Priest.
“To your health,” I said, clinking his glass. “Glad to see you in such fine shape, considering I thought you were six feet under.”
Nick laughed and drank but then grew serious. “Tell me. Who’s on your tail? Other than me, that is. I’ve been keeping an eye on you two since you arrived.”
“What do you mean?”
“Two guys following you. Western dress. Don’t look like locals. Driving a black SUV. Unfortunately they had some engine trouble so they missed your expedition to Pergamon. Their motor problems will keep them busy for a while.” He grinned.
I filled him in on all the events in New York, and told him I suspected Yersan of murdering Tricia Ross and putting a hit out on me. Chances were high that the men Nick spotted belonged to him.
“Iranians?”
I nodded. “Ethnic minority. Not Muslim. They’re followers of Zoroaster, fire worshipers.”
“And knowing that you still want to walk into the lion’s den? Kandovan is their territory. Must be worth a lot of money to you.”
“More than that, Nick. I’m pretty sure I was born in Kandovan, and I’m close to finding out who my real parents are. I wouldn’t have tried to enter Iran by myself, of course. With you here, it changes everything. Will you take us there?”
“I’m no miracle worker, Madison. I have my own problems. Why incur the risk?”
“Strauss threatened to accuse me of stealing the antiquities he’d shown me unless I finish the job. Of course what he wants is impossible. Bennet will be an effective witness and corroborator. I’ve already got a forger working on replicating pages of the book Strauss claims his assistant stole. To make it all believable, I really should go to Kandovan.”
Nick swore. “If I was in the U.S., I’d screw the asshole over for you.”
The owner brought our dinner—fried eggplant, zucchini patties with yogurt, grilled calamari, and homemade dumplings. We dug in as if we hadn’t eaten for days.
I waited patiently for Nick to tell me his story. Finally I poured the last of the bottle into our glasses and prompted him gently. “What’s the mystery?” I said. “You on a mission—under deep cover?”
He threw down a long draft of wine. Again I was struck by how haggard he looked. He bent his head and kept his eyes on the table. “Officially, I’m listed as Duty Status Whereabouts Unknown. That’s army speak for ‘We don’t have any proof of what happened to him but we’re pretty sure he’s dead.’ I engineered a rumor— that I’d been captured and tortured with my body dumped in an undisclosed location.”
I sat back. “Are you telling me you’re a deserter?”
He raised his eyes to mine and I could see a spark of anger. “I’d sooner cut my arm off than do that.”
I felt awful about mistaking his words. “I drew the wrong conclusion, sorry.”
“How much you keep up with the war? Did you see the news about Fallujah?”
“We wasted the place, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, pretty much. Bombed the shit right out of it. One of the people they were after was a key man, a Jordanian Sunni. The guy hated the Shia and U.S. in equal measure. By last November he’d accumulated a lot of control and influence. Pretty much all of Fallujah went rogue. I was one of the few to get inside. We heard he might put in an appearance at a wedding. If we could take him out there, we might be able to avoid a bloodbath. But I guess romance trumps everything. Some locals saw it coming down the pipe and went ahead with the wedding anyway.”
Nick sighed. “I’d been able to set up good surveillance. Don’t know whether he got wind of our plans or what but the main man didn’t show up. My message back to command got crossed somehow—not hard under those conditions. They went in with white phosphorus. Wasn’t expecting that. Usually it’s deployed for a fire screen before a troop advance. That stuff is worse than napalm. Skin melts right off of people. Fries them. Everyone died.”
He was silent for a moment. “When I saw what happened … I felt like someone had just clawed my heart out of my chest.”
“Lord. That’s brutal.”
“And on top of that, I was made. Marines saved my ass. It had to happen sometime. But you psyche yourself up pretending it won’t. I couldn’t go on after that. Beyond a couple of burns and a few slices on my arm I wasn’t physically hurt but the doctors declared me emotionally unfit for my job. Just could not shake those bodies out of my mind. Still can’t. That was four months ago. Off the record, I got extended leave and my commander let it be known I’d probably been killed in battle but they couldn’t locate my remains. Enough time goes by, they’re hoping I can get back in the race—but I don’t think so. This horse can’t run anymore.”
“That sounds like hell, Nick.”
He gave me a wan smile and picked up his glass again. “I’m currently hanging out in Istanbul under an assumed name. Nick Voss. Just call me Nick when we’re around anyone so you don’t make a slip. I’m thinking about getting into corporate counter-intelligence. Good money there and I can officially leave the army in another six months. You got a job for me? I need wads of cash to buy that New York penthouse.”
I laughed, hoping it would ease the pain he was feeling. “I do have money; none of it mine, fortunately, so I can be generous.” I paused. “So what do you think? Can you get us into Iran and babysit us while we’re there?”
“Oh yeah, piece of cake.” He grinned. “It will come as no surprise that Americans aren’t exactly welcome there. But you’re talking about the extreme northwestern end of the country—right? Close to the Turkish border?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll see. Getting you into Tehran, I wouldn’t try it. That location might be doable—just. Ethnic minorities mostly live in the area; they keep to themselves as much as possible, so that would help us. They don’t live easily with the government.”
Nick glanced at the glowing embers in the oven fire, at the painted earthenware china atop the cupboard, at the owner humming to himself while he polished glasses. He saw nothing. You think you know someone, especially after what we’d been through. Still … people change. War changes them no matter what side they’re on. It erodes your soul. At least that’s what I believed.
After I’d paid the bill we stepped back into the narrow lane outside. “You carry on,” Nick said. “I have to go back to my car for something. I’ll
head over to the hotel later. And keep your eyes sharp. Can’t swear those guys I saw were after you but it’s better to assume the worst.”
I had to make my way along a network of short streets no wider than alleyways. After midnight, cold now, and lacking tourist traffic, the place was empty of people, many of the houses dark, shops long shuttered up. Whether it was Nick’s warning or my sixth sense, something felt wrong. I kept looking over my shoulder, envisioning those two men behind me.
A young woman with bobbed black hair and bright lipstick emerged from a cross street about thirty feet ahead. It was a relief to see someone else out and I unconsciously slowed my pace. She looked at me nervously and hesitated as I approached, probably afraid to encounter a strange man. I nodded as I passed her and said “Good evening,” hoping to reassure her.
“Yes it is—now,” she said in perfect English.
Thirty
She came at me with a knife, gripping it close to the top of its shaft. The blade sliced through my jacket arm; I heard the sleeve rip, felt the sting of its tip. I managed to twist away and started to run. Then I saw a heavyset man step from a recessed doorway just ahead. I was boxed in. I heard the woman rush at my back and did the only thing I could think of. Went into a feint, dropped to the ground, and bashed into her below her knees.
She catapulted over me and fell heavily, her jaw striking the pavement. I dodged her and whipped around to face the man. He began to yell—and then his voice cut off abruptly. Nick had him by the throat. A lightning quick movement of Nick’s hands, a sickening twist of his neck, and the guy went soft at the knees and collapsed. He was out cold. The woman tried to sit up, blood flowing from her lips where her teeth had cut into the soft pulp of her mouth. The knife had landed a few feet away from her. I wrapped my hand in a plastic bag that lay on the cobblestones, picked it up, and slipped it into my jacket pocket.
