To Hunt a Sub

by Jacqui Murray

  “Gentlemen. Would you like to explore camp, give me a minute with Ms. Delamagente,” he said as he handed them ceramic cups of Kafe Turki, Without a word, the men disappeared.

  “What’s up, Kali?”

  Rowe yawned. He spent most of last night hunting futilely for clues left by his attackers. Delamagente on the other hand, looked fresh and energetic in clean khaki shorts and a crisp white blouse, shining hair plated into a loose abundant braid.

  “Have you been up all night?” She peeked over her shoulder at the visitors and blurted, “I can use Otto to see if the bones we found are related. You saw my presentation. He’s good at connecting dots.”

  Rowe turned away. “Not enough time. We’re wrapping up today.” He tried to sound professorial rather than the besotted fool he felt like around her.

  “No problem. All I need is their DNA when we get back to New York.” She stepped closer to Rowe, her face earnest, eyes direct. “Otto predicted this trio, Zeke. If he can establish those bones traveled here from Africa, it would prove your hypothesis.”

  Rowe absorbed the rich odors of sweat, dirt, and soap. They awakened memories from a time when worries were few and learning paramount, before the SEALS, Paulette’s death, and the Accident.

  “ADNA.” A furrow appeared between Delamagente’s eyes, so he explained, “Ancient DNA is older than regular DNA.” Why’d he correct her? He scratched his head. “None of the traditional reasons—water flow, volcanic activity, scavengers—explain the cohabitation.” An idea nudged its way to his consciousness. “OK. I’ll singalize the aDNA if you share everything with me, including individuals who benefit from your research.” Astonishment swept over her face. “It would be required of any field researcher,” he added. “Is someone involved you can’t reveal?”

  “I… I have to…go… take my turn at… the grid.”

  Rowe wondered what was going on.

  Kali tapped the dental pick lightly against the calcified jaw, little by little separating the cement-like breccia from the bone. The work was tedious and boring, leaving her free to consider Rowe’s demand. Mr. Keregosian’s only request, in return for his generous donation, was secrecy. Kali suspected he was involved in a Creationist ideology that would object to evolution. She had agreed, never considering a need to divulge his name.

  “You look worried, Kalian Delamagente. Is there something I can help with?”

  Kali liked Carl Hamar, an eager young grad student on his first dig. He often worked next to her. Today, he wore his usual white hemp drawstring pants with a t-shirt and simple leather sandals on narrow, hardened feet. He exuded a pleasant scent she associated with vegetarians and the calm demeanor of one who took life in stride.

  She ignored his question. “I like your slogan, Carl. ‘Be patient. I’m still evolving’.”

  “A gift from an Uncle to honor my acceptance into this program. I am the first archaeologist in our family.”

  “How do you do that—be patient?”

  “Patience, like oxygen, is in plentiful supply and only valuable when it disappears.”

  Kali laughed. “Such wisdom in one so young. Tell me about yourself.”

  Carl Hamar, known in his Iranian hometown as Laslo Hemren, offered a wan smile. He liked this Western female who shared her emotions so easily. Lines creased the corners of her eyes when she was happy and framed her mouth when worried. She noticed everything around her, like his sisters before their dreams were dashed, which made him want to tell her the truth.

  He was Laslo, son of Latif, himself the son of Shibli. He was born to Muslim parents who, like everyone in his ummah, inculcated their children in a religion that shaped their lives but they had not chosen for themselves. He had fond memories of Fridays in the Mosque, sitting cross-legged on the cool tile floor, listening to the imam’s stories. Of joining the adults afterward for the meal of lamb, goat cheese, bread, fruit, and a variety of nuts.

  As he matured, his beliefs became more fervent and the demands of Islam more numerous. He grew a beard as the Prophet had done, memorized the Qur’aan, and performed the Islamic toiletry etiquette before each prayer. This entailed washing his face, neck, arms, head, nasal cavity, mouth, ears, feet, repeating the process three times, and again if he so much as farted or sneezed. He found the ablutions rejuvenating to body and soul.

  Laslo might have remained a believer if not for his sisters. All they wanted from life was to be teachers, but under Islamic law, they were chattel, no different from cars or camels. When Laslo’s father died, control of them transferred to Laslo and he devised a desperate plan to acquire their freedom. He requested the honor of becoming a ‘sleeper’ in America to which his imam agreed. When he completed his task here, he would move to the lair of the Great Satan where his sisters would join him. There, they would become loyal immigrants until Allah called Laslo to jihad. This, Laslo decided, was a fair trade.

  Carl Hamar, aka Laslo Hemren, could tell none of this to Kalian Delamagente, despite how kind she seemed. He dipped his head, listening to the murmur of camp gossip, the smack of tools against the rocky soil, the caw of birds, and his own labored breathing. When he next looked up, worry filled Kalian Delamagente’s eyes. That was good. It was time to share the cover story he hoped she would believe.

  “I am from Esfahan, Iran. I grew up in a Muslim family, the third of seven children. My parents taught me that Muslims are not on this earth to be happy, but to preserve the values of our Prophet. I believed that until the age of fifteen when a favorite cousin pulled me aside to say goodbye. While his schoolmates embraced the Qur’an’s words to Fight those who do not believe in Allah, he was leaving for America, the land of opportunity, freedom, and happiness. He invited me to join him.

  “To this day, my mother refuses to talk with me.”

  Carl waited, eyes focused downward, hiding the deception that must be obvious in his eyes. After what seemed like hours, she spoke.

  “You’ve been honest with me, Carl, so I have a confession. I’m not an anthropologist. A computer program I created failed and I’m here to gain perspective on my life.”

  “Technology I love as much as archaeology. We have much time, dusting and sifting. Please tell me about your work.”

  Delamagente started with her dream to improve education and the futile struggle to seek funding. The more she opened up, the more he came to like this American. He pushed that aside and remembered his sisters. He managed to get all the information his handlers required without arousing the woman’s suspicions.

  As they rose for lunch, he took her arm. “We all fail once or more. When I graduate and my day of failure comes, I will remember your strength, Kalian Delamagente, how you recovered and moved on.”

  Delamagente’s elegance attracted every male in the group, but Carl’s attention was different. It took seven minutes for Rowe’s new security personnel to declare him ‘interesting’ which inspired Rowe to dig out the man’s application. The man pictured was broad-faced with an intelligent honest smile and brown eyes glittering with enthusiasm, but not the person outside Rowe’s tent. He Skyped Carl’s anthropology professor at Hebrew University.

  “My apologies. Our records sometimes fall behind. Yaakov Demsky, the student who signed up, died in a car crash. A tragic event. His professors considered him a promising scientist. Carl Hamar called about the possibility of late cancellations. We select from a waiting list which he wasn’t on, but he said his wife contacted us several times. Luck was with him. Everyone else had alternate summer plans. I’ll fax his curriculum vitae immediately.”

  “Who recommended him?”

  “I have the letter. Ah, here it is. Dr. Wynton Fairgrove. Surprising an unknown student attracted the attention of such a prominent scientist, yes?”

  The judge at the DARPA competition. That couldn’t be coincidence.

  “Could you email the files to me? And thank you for your time, Doctor.”

  Rowe wandered over to where Carl Hamar and Kali Delamagente were
working. Now that he knew he was an impostor, it was obvious. Everyone wore old footwear on a dig, but Hamar’s shoes were new. Where his nails should have been scarred from constant digging in hard soil, they were smooth. Most telling, he lacked the environmental awareness every archaeologist possessed like a second skin.

  “Carl. We haven’t chatted. Are you learning what you hoped to with us?”

  If the boy-man understood Rowe’s double meaning, he gave no indication. “Oh, yes. I am blessed to have found a kindred soul in Kalian Delamagente. If I could, I would come to your Columbia University to study.”

  Rowe tapped his watch and held it up to his ear before returning his attention to Carl. “I understand Dr. Fairgrove referred you to this project?”

  “Yes. Dr. Fairgrove. He remembered me from a lecture.”

  “He is an excellent speaker. Where did you hear him?”

  Carl scratched a flee bite on his arm. “Where did I hear him?” His brows knitted and his mouth formed a lipless line. “Max Planck Institute, on a semester exchange program.”

  Rowe coughed to hide his surprise. Carl’s handler should have prepped him better.

  “That must have been before you married.”

  Carl blushed. “I have yet to meet my wife. My imam will arrange that at the right time.”

  Rowe had heard enough. “Well, keep up the good work. Someday, you may solve one of man’s important mysteries.”

  He left, forcing himself not to rush. Carl was young, naïve, and unprepared for an undercover assignment. Duck’s friends would find out what he was supposed to accomplish—and if he had succeeded—tomorrow.

  Inside his tent, Rowe called James. “See what you can find out about a ‘Carl Hamar’. I just sent an audio. Also, find out about the death of Yaakov Demsky in a Jerusalem car crash.”

  As he hung up, his mind raced. First the gunmen, now a plant in his crew. Why? His only out-of-the-ordinary activity was the favor for James. Rowe gulped half a bottle of water, dumped the rest over his head, and made his decision just as Delamagente entered.

  “Hey, Kali. Ready to go home?”

  “What’s my choice?” He motioned her to sit. “What you asked, about revealing who I share data with. That’s standard? Anyone funding me would expect it?”

  “Demand it, to avoid conflicts of interest. Requests for anonymity are unreasonable.”

  She met his eyes for the first time. “OK. Let’s do it.”

  Chapter 16

  Wednesday

  As the plane taxied to the gate, Kali turned her phone on and found three messages from Sean, all about how much fun he was having. She pecked out a response as she cleared Customs, telling him she was back in the US and couldn’t wait to talk to him.

  She took a taxi home rather than the bus, taking advantage of Mr. Keregosian’s grant. When she saw Mr. Winters’ light on, Tears sprang to her eyes. She missed Sandy’s wild enthusiasm and unstinting love. She knocked on the door, hugged Mr. Winters, and promised to share all the details tomorrow when she wasn’t asleep on her feet. Sandy greeted her, tail wagging like an out-of-control metronome. After a quick tussle, they went home and fell into bed where she slept until the sun blazed through the window.

  Sandy popped up with a contented yawn as though pleased to be home. Kali wrapped her arms around his thick neck, kissed the crown of his head, then tossed a handful of kibble into his bowl and started coffee. That’s when she realized she didn’t have a headache. She could count on one hand the days in any given month she woke without one. So besides the other, Zeke was medicinal.

  She showered, threw on a robe and took two coffees to the back stoop. Mr. Winters was already there, dressed in a blue oxford shirt, tan trousers secured by his always-shiny Marine Corps buckle, and slippers.

  “What’s up today, Mr. Winters? You getting frisky with your Vet friends?”

  “Hello, kitten. Just wanted to say good morning. Boy that smells good.” He took the steaming mug and inhaled. “No one makes coffee like you, kitten. No, not my friends. I have a doctor appointment, like they do any good.”

  The arthritis had spread from his hips, knees, elbows, and back to his feet. He’d started wearing slippers during the day and using a cane—‘an old man’s third leg.’

  “A friend of yours stopped by. I got his picture.” He patted his camera phone. “And I let the plumber in. The unit above you sprang a leak.”

  “Oh. I didn’t see any problems.”

  Two lines creased Mr. Winters’ wrinkled forehead.

  “I’ll find them later.” She checked her Timex. “Gotta go. Full day!”

  She sketched a wave and ran inside, Sandy in pursuit. Too late for a run, she dressed in pleated ivory slacks, a white short-sleeved blouse and navy blue pumps—her meet-the-Dean outfit. He wanted an update on her thesis. After ten minutes of searching, she found her mother’s diamond earrings. She didn’t remember leaving them on her nightstand, but she had been rushed.

  She opened the doggy door, pulled the top off a yogurt, and hurried into the humid New York morning. A short walk, right turn at the bodega, and a straight line to Columbia.

  Amsterdam Avenue’s eclectic mix of architecture never failed to awe Kali. Grand old buildings with art deco entrances and limestone facades mixed with rundown liquor stores, their blue awnings stark against the brick-and-stone high-rises, a valley like Lucy’s African Rift except molded by man. When Riverside Church chimed eight, she broke into a trot.

  A Post-it note was stuck to her keyboard when she arrived at her lab.

  “From your hunky new boyfriend.” Cat waved distractedly, feet on her desk, an icepack over her brow, and an earbud peeking from beneath her hair.

  Zeke and his two muscular friends had dropped her off at home last night and still he beat her in.

  “Hello to you, too, Cat. Did you miss me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “How would you like to face our booboisian colleagues alone?”

  “Booboisian?”

  “What the French call Americans to denigrate our lack of culture.”

  Cat’s eyes glowed red and were perilously close to shutting. Kali sniffed Chanel 22 trying valiantly to disguise the stale liquor fumes seeping from her girlfriend’s pores.

  “Where’d you go last night?”

  “The Blue Note. A quartet played the oldies. Piano, tenor sax, drums and stand-up bass. Grady Tate’s Multiplication Rock brought the house down.”

  By the looks of her, Cat closed the house down.

  “I met a blonde hunk—cultured, intelligent, gorgeous, and rich. All the requirements. A girl was there with him, but I won him over.”

  “As though there was any other outcome.”

  “How was Israel?”

  “I met my soulmate.” Though Carl’s disappearance on the last day left her wondering.

  Cat smirked. “Many primitive cultures believed people possess two souls, one for the spirit and one for the body. Which do you mean?” She readjusted the ice pack.

  Kali scowled as she sorted through the mail on her desk. “He’s too young.”

  “Yes, Daddy. I’m still here.” Her shoulders hunched. “If you want my opinion—”

  She stopped mid-sentence and bit her lip. The billionaire’s baritone drowned out his daughter’s words. He hired yes men for ideas. From Cat, he expected a son-in-law to take over the business. Her forehead wrinkled. “Umhm. OK... Kali, do you have any Visine?”

  Kali emptied her purse, found nothing, and moved on to her desk. As she dug through Lifesavers, sugarless gum, a pile of flash drives and a half-eaten bag of chips, Cat grunted and ummed into the phone.

  “Anything happen while I was gone?”

  “Dean Manfried stopped by. He’s at Step Two.”

  She and Cat rated the Dean’s visits. Step One—a rare occurrence—was The Friend. Step Two was The Harridan, flushed cheeks and bouncing jowls as he spouted orders—You must comply with academic standards. Step Three, The Termagant, where he lost contr
ol and spittle exploded from his mouth like a lawn sprinkler.

  No Visine in her desk. She tried the first aid kit by the door. “Why’s he want to see me?”

  “Daddy says you made waves again.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “I’m talking—oh. Don’t mix your pronouns, Kali. No. Of course not.”

  Cat dipped her head and picked at her nails. Daddy must be lecturing. “OK. Call back.”

  Kali waved a Visine bottle and handed it to Cat. She squirted two drops in each eye and tipped her head back. “Is that box about the skeletons you found?”

  Kali nodded. “If they’re as old as Zeke thinks, they could validate Otto’s findings. Zeke will singalize their aDNA, and I’ll digitize it and plug it into Otto. I’ll either get better-looking Lucy, Ump and Boah, or three new characters.”

  “But they’re too old to be viable.”

  “I don’t need them alive.”

  Kali tucked the box under her arm, flapped a goodbye, bought two coffees from the vending machine and wove through the underground corridors to Zeke Rowe’s lab. When she got there, she stopped in awe. It was the size of her entire apartment, and unshared.

  “Ah. Beware of geeks bearing gifts.”

  Rowe’s voice came from behind a pile of boxes. He was digging through an architect’s cabinet, drawers labeled ‘Teeth’, ‘Bones’, ‘Jaws’, and ‘Assorted Fragments’. He must use these for comparison pieces in his research. An oversized monitor rose above the clutter like a mechanical philomath.

  “Be nice, Zeke, or I’ll drink both.”

  “Geeks with coffee are always welcome,” and went back to his phone call.