“Tomorrow, if possible.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry your visit is so short. My family is quite attached to you.”
“I like them, too. But I will return. I can never repay you for your hospitality and help”
“I’m the one who is in your debt, Dr. Cait. If Prester John hadn’t brought you here, my granddaughter would not have lived.”
Cait stared off into space. “I’m not a superstitious person, and as a historian I deal in facts, but when you study events and people over thousands of years, it’s amazing how things seem to fall into place, as if they had been pre-ordained. There have been times when Prester John seems to be calling me to find him.”
“Grandfather!”
They exchanged glances and started laughing.
“It seems that Prester John has the voice of a very impatient four-year-old girl,” Amir said.
Cait sat cross-legged on the living room floor after dinner, engaged in an intense game of patty-cake with Amir’s granddaughter. She happened to look up and noticed that the drug lord, seated in his chair, was gazing thoughtfully in her direction.
Then Amir said something in Pashto to the little girl, who responded with a pout that was vanquished with the offer of a sweet pastry. The little girl gave her grandfather a peck on the cheek, came over and planted a wet kiss on Cait’s face, and ran off into the next room. The scene was so affecting that Cait forgot for a moment that the kindly grandfather was a hardened drug lord.
She rose to her feet.
“Thank you,” she said in a breathless voice that was only partially exaggerated. “I was becoming patty-caked to exhaustion.”
“Yasmeen has more energy than a young colt.” He affixed her with his eagle-like gaze. “So, Dr. Cait, you still plan to leave tomorrow?”
“Yes, if I can prevail upon you to fly me out in the morning.”
“I’ll call the plane back from Kabul. But perhaps I can persuade you to stay another day. My granddaughter is going to miss you.”
“I’ll miss her, too. But my mind is set on my research. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to start packing.”
“Before you go to your room, I have something to show you that may be of interest.”
He patted his shirt like an absent-minded professor, pulled some four-by-five inch photographs out of his pocket and handed them over.
Cait fanned the photos out on the table top.
“This picture shows an ancient bread mold,” she said. “This looks like a baking oven. This photo shows ash from a fire. This oval piece is a stone name seal.” She looked up from the pile. “Where were these pictures taken, Amir?”
“The objects were found at some ruins not far from the village.”
He slid more pictures across the table. Cait studied the images. Most people would have seen only a maze of rectangular pits and open spaces, but in her mind’s eye, Cait saw a caravanserai.
The high walls of the caravan stop enclosed an open space that in ancient times would have been a crowded bazaar ringed by apartments to lodge weary traders, storage space for their precious goods, and stables to house camels and other beasts of burden.
“Who took these?”
“I did. I’m no photographer, as you can see by the poor quality.”
“Where are the objects now?”
“I’ve heard that the provenance of artifacts is important to an archaeologist so I left them in situ until the time the ruins can be examined professionally. I’ve warned the locals to stay away from the site.”
“Where are the ruins in relation to the lake?”
“About twenty miles to the east.”
The site was between Itmud and the Valley of the Dead. Trying to keep excitement from coloring her voice, she said, “I don’t recall you mentioning these ruins before.”
“Forgive me. You seemed to be focused on the old mine near the lake, and I didn’t want to distract you. It’s a shame that you are leaving so soon,” he said with a sigh. “Perhaps you can see the ruins on your next visit. Although to my untrained eye, there is nothing there of any importance.”
Amir did his best to wreath his weathered features in innocence, but it was impossible for him to mask the cunning that lurked behind the intelligent eyes. Cait wasn’t fooled. The Kahn was using the ruins as bait to keep her there.
“Hard to tell much about the site from these photos. It might be a trading post or caravan stop. On the other hand, it might be part of a major settlement.”
“You think that these ruins could be part of an abandoned city?”
“It’s possible. Which is the reason the site is not on the caravan stop map Kurtz found. And if that’s true, they could be an important piece of the Prester John puzzle.”
“In what way, Dr. Cait?” He leaned forward, giving her his full attention.
“This would have been a logical place for the caravan carrying the treasure to have stopped. They would have tried to keep their presence low key, but someone might have made note of their passing through. It might be something as ordinary as a bill for supplies, but it would strengthen the foundation underlying my theory.”
“Then it’s done,” Amir said. “You will visit the ruins tomorrow.”
Cait admired the way the Kahn closed the deal. Her chances of finding evidence of Prester John in one day were slim, but historical research was like plucking at a strand of yarn and unraveling the whole sweater.
“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. I know how busy you are.”
“No trouble at all. I shall be away tomorrow. Some of my men will take you there.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. “Any other ruins you have forgotten to tell me about?”
He spread his hands wide, palms up. “The sands are always shifting. One can never know what mystery lies beneath their surface until they reveal themselves.”
“No different than people,” Cait observed.
Amir must have known that he was the target of her wry wit, because he confirmed the accuracy of her comment by widening his lips in a mysterious smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The intruders came in the night.
Sutherland had slept a few hours only to wake up before dawn. She got out of bed and shuffled to her office like a sleep-walker, sat at her desk and booted up her computer. No message from Hawkins. She frowned. Then her sleepy eyes snapped open like window shades at the sound of her security alarm.
Bong-bong. Bong-bong.
Her security system was warning that an intruder had entered the motion detection zone. She had installed a camera at each roof corner and another at the old ranch to warn her of Border Patrol raids. The feeds came through on the seventy-two inch television screen mounted on the wall. The ranch camera had picked up the image of shadowy figures emerging from an SUV that was dark-colored, not white and green like Border Patrol vehicles.
And the figures moving toward the house wore black uniforms instead of Border Patrol khaki.
The intruders stirred up every paranoid fear Sutherland had ever encountered. She began to hyperventilate and tremble uncontrollably. Reminding herself that she was not completely defenseless, she began to get control of her emotions and silently scolded herself:
Don’t be a victim. Act.
She reached for the phone, put in a call to 911 and reported that she had seen prowlers around the house.
“Illegals?” the dispatcher said.
“I don’t know. It’s dark.”
“I’ll call the Border Patrol and send a cruiser.”
“How long?”
“Soon as possible. Keep your doors and windows locked.”
Sutherland frowned at the lame advice and hung up. It would take at least fifteen minutes for anyone to reach her remote house, and during that time she would be on her own.