Ahead was a vast ungoverned space—mountainous, rocky, and stark, a moonscape with more stunted bushes than trees. Soon they would reach the back roads traversing the Kirthar Range, dirt scars in the earth hacked from rocks. Few used them. There would be more dust than water; the rivers dried up in summer, leaving only a few springs fed by underground water. Little wonder, Al Zaroor reflected, that Alexander the Great, becoming lost here on his return from India, had left several thousand soldiers rotting in the sun, dead from hunger and dehydration.
There were hours of darkness yet. Any danger would not come from the army or police; at night, the countryside reverted to the Baluch. Most were Pashtun: bearded men in white cloth robes, conservative Sunni who lived by a rigid social structure, a weave of tribes and clans in which Zia’s family was intertwined. They would pose no problem. But the chaos in Afghanistan had driven desperate Afghans into a region where too many men already faced poverty. These could be a threat.
Al Zaroor closed his eyes, still thinking of the bomb beneath them.
When a pothole jolted him awake, dawn had broken, and Muhaiddin was talking into a radio. The convoy had fallen into place.
To the side, Al Zaroor saw the jagged mountains of the Kirthar Range, the highest still snowcapped. The road ahead was barely wider than the van and skirted a hillside with a precipitous drop. Al Zaroor wished he had not opened his eyes.
Muhaiddin smiled, still watching the road. “There are reasons we take this route,” he said.
“Of course. Who else would?”
They took a hairpin turn without braking. Abruptly, Muhaiddin became taut. Ahead Al Zaroor saw a barricade manned by uniformed police. Softly, Muhaiddin said, “This is new here.”
He glided to a stop. Counting four policemen, Al Zaroor wondered what they made of this caravan appearing from nowhere. Perhaps Zia had paid the men; if not, they would die. The danger was that one might use a radio first.
Muhaiddin rolled down the window. “What is it?”
The policeman wore sunglasses, two black circles obscuring a skeletal face. “We wish to know your business.”
Muhaiddin stared at him. “You know us, brother. Our business is the same.”
The man hesitated, glancing at the vans behind them. “These are different times.”
Without changing his demeanor, Muhaiddin reached for the handgun on the console. “Not for us. And not for you. Unless you wish it.”
The man’s neck muscles tightened. Al Zaroor tensed, waiting. Then the policeman turned and signaled the others to raise the barrier. “Be watchful,” he told Muhaiddin. “More eyes may see you than before.”
Including from the sky, Al Zaroor suspected.
In late afternoon the path, sloping downward, neared the road just below Basima.
The young man beside Al Zaroor drove so that Muhaiddin could sleep. They neither spoke nor stopped; the men in the convoy pissed and shat at night. Instead they shared fruit and warm fetid water from a battered canteen.
The van’s radio crackled, then a woman spoke in Pashto. “There are men approaching.”
Surprised, Al Zaroor wondered at the source of the voice. The convoy contained no women. “Baluchs?” the driver asked.
“Afghans.”
“How many?”
“I count six.”
As the van turned another corner, there was the pop of gunfire. On the stretch of road ahead, several men on foot were shooting the tires of a Mercedes sedan. The car settled slowly on its wheel rims. From inside emerged two couples, men and women, hands raised in the air.
More of Zia’s people, Al Zaroor thought.
He heard the crunch of brakes behind them, the other vans stopping. Three men in Afghan robes and turbans approached, AK-47s held at hip level. One signaled for Al Zaroor to roll down his window.
Though young, the man had few teeth, and sun had graven lines like cracks at the corners of his eyes. “You are not Baluch,” he said in accusation.
Al Zaroor felt his heartbeat accelerate. “Nor are you.”
Spitting, the man said, “Show me what’s inside the van.”
“Open it yourself.”
Glancing at his companions, this man and another sauntered to the back of the van.
Al Zaroor inhaled. The Afghan on the other side held a gun to his driver’s head. Watching him, Al Zaroor envisioned the handgun on the console.
He heard the rear door open with a thud. The crack of gunfire sounded. Startled, the man holding the gun to the driver’s head fired, a twitch of the finger.
The spray of blood and brains spattered Al Zaroor. With a swift movement of his left hand he grasped the handgun and fired, obliterating the Afghan’s face. The rest of him slid down the side of the van.
Staring at the murdered driver, Al Zaroor felt queasy. He took another deep breath, wiping speckles of blood from his face, then slid out the passenger side.
At the rear of the van, two robbers lay in the dirt, bodies stained with red. The Afghans beside the Mercedes had frozen, as though hypnotized by the six armed men who faced them. The only movement was the two couples drifting to the side of the road.
Muhaiddin jumped from inside the van, following the gunmen who had killed the Afghans. Stepping across a dead man, he glanced at Al Zaroor. “You all right?”
Nodding, Al Zaroor gazed at the surviving Afghans. “Kill them.”
Muhaiddin spoke a word.
Zia’s men fired. The three Afghans twitched with the bullets like sheets fluttering on a clothesline. Then they fell to the ground, still.
Walking to the first van, Muhaiddin rolled the murdered driver onto the ground. Looking at the man’s shattered skull, he closed his eyes.
“A friend?” Al Zaroor asked him.
“A cousin.”
Al Zaroor felt the heat sapping his energy by the moment. “We must go,” he said. “What do we do with the dead?”
“Our men will have to share two vans. We’ll stack the bodies in the third, and leave them at night for the vultures.” Looking down at his cousin, he murmured, “But not you, Daoud.”
“And the Mercedes?”
“Push it into the ravine. Someone will retrieve the passengers.”
Laboring in the blazing sun, Zia’s men carried the bodies to the third truck. Then they got back into their vans and land rovers and began moving toward the coast.
Just before sunset, they reached the port of Jiwani.
The place was a womanless pesthole, three rusted fishing boats moored beside corrugated shacks electrified by a groaning generator. The sole person in sight was an old wizened man who seemed to have shriveled in place. Al Zaroor wanted to laugh—the grandeur of his plans could end at this miserable flyspeck.
Muhaiddin approached the old man and exchanged brief words. Then he returned to the van and Al Zaroor. “Your dhow will arrive soon.”
“And the first?”
“Left two hours ago with its shipment, headed for Dubai.”
Walking to the third van, Muhaiddin ordered the men to dump the dead Afghans in the mountains. Al Zaroor watched their taillights vanish in the enveloping dusk.
Darkness fell. Hurriedly, Zia’s men removed the crate from the well of the van. Laid beside the truck, it was a haphazard assortment of wood pieces hammered together and stamped as machine parts. The West’s future in a Pakistani box.
Someone called out softly, pointing toward the water. Framed in the moonlight, the masts of a dhow were gliding toward the harbor. Muhaiddin and Al Zaroor watched it be moored, a shadow.
“Come,” Muhaiddin said.
Al Zaroor followed him toward an old wooden boat that bobbed in the waves nearest the shore. Beside them, three men carried the crate to the sunbaked mud where water met earth.
Knees bent, they placed it carefully in the boat. Muhaiddin turned to Al Zaroor. “This will take you to the dhow.”
The two men shook hands. Then Al Zaroor got into the boat, hand resting on the crate, and was steere
d toward the dhow by a man whose face he could not see.
Palms on the conference table, Grey and Brooke stared at the series of photographs Ellen Clair had placed before them. To Brooke most seemed to capture tiny rectangles observed from a great distance. Several showed what might be the outline of a boat against a black pool.
“What is all this?” Grey asked Ellen.
Through her glasses, the analyst gave him a look of owlish caution. “It’s Baluchistan, of course. These last images were taken over the port of Jiwani and the waters offshore.” She placed a finger on one photograph, speaking with a librarian’s precision. “Collectively, they seem to show an unusually large number of vehicles, six in all, arriving at the port. These specks appear to be men loading something on a boat before it meets a larger craft farther out to sea. A dhow, perhaps.”
Brooke looked up at her. “Can we follow it by satellite?”
“Possibly. It’s not easy—there are hundreds of dhows in the Arabian Gulf. But the latest images suggest that this one may be headed in the direction of Dubai.”
“Jebel Ali Port,” Grey murmured, then turned to Brooke. “Care to go back into the field?”
ELEVEN
As dawn broke, Dr. Laura Reynolds drove from the Maronite church alone, stopping to admire an exquisite Roman temple in the hills above Anjar.
Gazing around her, she confirmed that her land rover was the only vehicle in sight. Then she pushed a button, raising the antenna, and leaned closer to the car’s clock radio. She could never quite shake the absurdity of talking to a clock.
Nonetheless, she spoke, quietly but distinctly. “Morning, Sam. How was Paris?”
Hearing this, her listener would signal if the photographs she had sent, taken with the cameras concealed in her headlights, were sufficient. “This particular trip,” his voice responded, “was a pleasure.”
Instantly, Laura felt relief. Though her broadband bypassed the need for satellite transmission, others could intercept a message. This placed a premium on brevity. “I’m glad,” she said, and terminated the call.
Lowering the antenna, she took a last look at the temple, its marble white-yellow in the first streak of morning sun. Then she drove to the dig site.
Her colleagues were already at work. Seeing Laura amid the ruins, her reluctant coconspirator, Dr. Jan Krupanski, gave a wary smile.
From the beginning, Krupanski had been wary of Laura Reynolds.
At the end of her job interview, he had suggested that they stroll through Anjar, stopping by the river flowing through its center. Motionless, he pondered its depths, his pleasant young-old face creased with worry.
“So,” he began, “you’re the spy UNESCO proposes to plant among us.”
“I prefer the term ‘retriever of antiques,’” Laura amended. “You must know what’s at stake here. Smuggling is a deadly business.”
“But is it my business, I wonder?”
Laura waited for two Shia women in head scarves and long robes to pass them on the way to market. Quietly, she answered, “Tony Abboud and I agree that it should be. At last the United Nations is allowing UNESCO to address this crime. So here I am.” Hands in her pockets, Laura faced him. “It’s not just that they’re plundering Lebanon’s history. Nor is the cast of characters confined to crooked art dealers selling treasures to rich vulgarians from Texas. This traffic finances terrorists.”
Distractedly, Krupanski ran a hand through his graying caramel hair. “Perhaps, Dr. Reynolds. But my cast of characters includes the universities who fund me, however badly. For them to know that I was harboring you might interdict this precious flow of parsimony.”
“Who’ll tell them?” she rejoined. “Not you, and certainly not me. As far as everyone but Dr. Abboud is concerned, I’m exactly who I appear to be—a new Ph.D. looking for an entry-level job. My other interests need not concern them.” She paused. “As to money, perhaps we can address that. But I can’t leave here in good conscience without making my case.”
“Then I’ll listen. But only as a courtesy.”
Laura gazed at him directly, drawing on an allure of which she pretended to be unaware. Her voice held a throaty undertone of urgency. “We’re trying to stem a tragedy,” she began. “Terrorists across the region help finance their activities by looting the treasures of countries crippled by war and civil discord. It’s happening right now in Afghanistan and Pakistan. When the U.S. ripped apart Iraq, al Qaeda fighters helped pay for killing American and Iraqi soldiers and civilians alike by smuggling antiquities onto the black market. One bunker captured by marines contained guns, missiles, ski masks, night vision goggles, and thirty boxes of statuettes stolen from the Iraqi National Museum—”
“A stupid war,” Krupanski interrupted disgustedly. “America responded to September 11 like a wounded beast, thrashing blindly in all directions.”
Beneath this protest, Laura sensed resistance warring with the conscience of a man whose most sacred belief was in preserving the past. Curtly she said, “Let’s not argue about what can’t be changed. But since you mention 9/11, I’ll tell you a true story. Before the attack, its ringleader, Mohammed Atta, approached a German professor about selling artifacts stolen in Afghanistan. When the professor asked his purpose, Atta replied that he needed to buy a plane.” She softened her voice, still looking into his eyes. “I’m a New Yorker, Jan. I saw the Twin Towers go down, taking with them a friend I’d become quite fond of. Perhaps this traffic paid for his death.”
“But who are these terrorists? The Taliban is not here, nor have I heard of an al Qaeda presence in this valley.”
Laura gave him a level glance. “Al Qaeda still has affiliates in Palestinian refugee camps. But we both know we’re talking about Hezbollah.”
“Yes,” Krupanski answered harshly. “The Islamic ‘Army of God.’ They’re all around us, even when we can’t see them. Their green and yellow flag, showing a hand thrusting a semiautomatic weapon skyward, flies over most of the Bekaa. It’s rumored they have underground installations very near our site, perhaps rockets concealed for the next war with Israel. Why should I endanger my project and my people by provoking such men?”
Laura stood taller. “They won’t slaughter archaeologists,” she said crisply. “Hezbollah’s public relations sense is way better than that. The only person at risk is me.”
“So why endanger yourself by coming here?”
“Because, like you, I care about the rape of history and the mass murder of civilians. One feeds the other. Nine out of ten antiquities plundered from the Middle East are controlled by Hezbollah or other jihadists. Many are stolen here: Lebanon is hemorrhaging its past. That aside, smugglers in the Anti-Lebanon Mountains, some affiliated with Hezbollah, are siphoning stolen Iraqi treasures through this valley. I’ve come where I’m needed.”
Krupanski turned to the river again. “You’re one woman, proposing to stick your finger in the dike. How will you perform this protean task?”
“By doing my job well. You’ve seen my credentials—”
“Yes, and called one of your professors, an old friend. He speaks highly of you. You’re more than qualified to run a dig house, if that were all that’s involved.”
Glancing past them, Laura spotted a bearded man in the green fatigues of Hezbollah militia functioning as a substitute for ordinary police. “It’s most of what’s involved. Supplying the dig house would allow me to move around the valley, going places and meeting people without drawing undue attention.” Her tone became quietly persuasive. “I can also be our ambassador. My mother was Lebanese, so I speak fluent Arabic with a Lebanese accent. When we send out a survey team I can explain our mission to headmen in local towns, assuring them that we’re not thieves ourselves. If I also hear about antiquities for sale, or see something that suggests it, I’ll quietly pass that on to my superiors and, perhaps, to Interpol. My only weapons will be patience and observation.”
Troubled, Krupanski still gazed at the river. Moving closer, L
aura stood beside him. After a time, she said, “There’s one more thing.”
Krupanski seemed to sigh. “And what is that?”
“Money. Without going into detail, I believe I can help supplement the funding for your project. Rather than causing difficulties, I might well extend your time here.”
He turned, eyebrows raised in an expression that mingled surprise with fresh suspicion. “You’re a very interesting woman, Dr. Reynolds. And very complicated.”
Laura smiled faintly. “Thank you. Whatever my complications, they won’t make trouble for you.”
Still searching her eyes, Krupanski nodded slowly. “Trouble,” he said with muted fervor, “is something no scholar needs.”
Now Laura stood at the site, returning this man’s ambiguous smile. You still have no idea, she thought. At least none you care to entertain.
TWELVE
Thirty-six hours later, Brooke Chandler arrived in Dubai at dawn.
He was glad to be in the field again, however briefly. But this feeling was overcome by deep anxiety: This time the issue was whether a Pakistani dhow contained a nuclear weapon. And Dubai itself increased his restiveness—like everything around him, the site of his hotel, Palm Jumeirah, felt like a mirage. A massive landfill shaped like a palm, it jutted from the coastline of a glistening modern city, the high-rises surrounding its mosques piercing the sky in phallic competition. A special point of pride was a stunningly ostentatious shopping mall built around a ski slope supplied with snow at hideous expense. When Brooke had first come there, seven years before, he had emailed Anit Rahal that Dubai was “Las Vegas without the heart.” Then she had vanished from his life.
For another twelve hours, seemingly interminable, Brooke killed time in his room. Repeatedly, he parsed the theory he shared with Carter Grey—that al Qaeda had smuggled the bomb through Baluchistan; that its operatives would try to disappear in the maze of boats that plied the Gulf; that Dubai might be their transfer point of choice, enabling them to move the bomb toward America, Europe, or targets in the Middle East. Were they right, and the dhow they were tracking was al Qaeda’s vehicle, the search was over, the prospect of nuclear horror averted.
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