The three walked casually through a gaggle of people strolling along the sidewalk. Susa’s bazaar was much smaller than others they’d visited in larger cities, like Marrakech or Istanbul. White tents hung over the modest collection of stalls along the walkway. Some of the sellers were closing down for the day, the afternoon rush ending more than an hour ago. A few others hung around hoping to make a little extra money before dark.
Ahead on the left, a red fabric hung over an open doorway, propped up at two points by poles set into divots in the sidewalk. The words painted onto the stucco wall told the visitors they were in the right place: The Red Tea House. Sean let the other two enter first, giving one last look around before he stepped across the threshold.
Inside, they found a cantina-style tea room. It was long and narrow, with a bar set against the back wall and tables lining the rest of the room’s perimeter. Men ranging in age from forty to seventy sat quietly sipping their hot beverages. In this part of the world, tea was almost considered a privilege, as was being a man. A quick survey of the room told the group that Adriana wasn’t welcome. Every eye widened simultaneously as the men stared in disbelief at the woman who had the nerve to enter their fortress of masculinity.
She turned around and faced Sean. A concerned looked filled her eyes. He sighed and ticked his head to the right, motioning for her to wait outside. She shook her head but complied.
“I’ll keep a lookout for trouble,” she whispered as she passed.
“Sorry,” he said.
Once she was gone, the room came alive again, filled with quiet conversation among the patrons. They probably figured the two Americans didn’t speak Farsi, which was a mistaken assumption. Three men nearby mentioned how they couldn’t believe a woman would presume she could just walk in here. Another at the bar turned around and said something about stupid Westerners.
In the far left corner, a man in a white T-shirt and khakis stood up and walked toward the two visitors. He looked young, probably in his early thirties, with thick black hair and a matching mustache. He smiled as he approached.
“Don’t let them bother you. They don’t know you speak Farsi,” the man said loud enough for everyone to hear. He cocked his head to the side. “Perhaps they should speak some other dialect.” His English was perfect and carried the slightest twinge of a British accent.
The man stuck out his hand, which Sean shook firmly. “Muhammad, I presume?”
“At your service,” he bowed dramatically before shaking Tommy’s hand. “I have a table over here. Please, join me. I presume your female friend will be fine staying outside for a moment?”
Muhammad’s eyes were tucked behind a few sun-stroked wrinkles appeared young, like a man in his twenties, but the lines across his cheeks and the leathery skin looked like he’d been around four to five decades. Sean figured it was somewhere in the middle, probably closer to his own age. According to a quick briefing from Joe, Muhammad was Muslim, raised and educated in England, and tolerant of all religions. He’d forged a relationship with Joe and Helen with a mutual love of adventure and archaeology. Somehow, Sean figured there was a little more to that story than he’d been told, but he decided to leave it alone for now.
Sean smirked and tilted his head back for a fraction of a second. “Yeah, she’ll be okay.”
Muhammad couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not, based on the sarcastic sound of his voice, but he sat down anyway and motioned for the other two to sit as well. He stuck his hand down into a brown canvas satchel and pulled out several sheets of paper. The rolled up sheets were old, frayed on the edges, and the writings and drawings had faded over time. The papers that may have been white or pale cream when they were new had turned to an almost brownish color.
He spread them out flat on the table and pushed away the nearly empty teacup. “Don’t want to spill anything on these. They’re over two hundred years old.”
Sean and Tommy passed each other an impressed glance and then focused on the drawings.
“This,” Muhammad pointed at the map’s center, “is where Daniel’s tomb is. These lines indicate tunnels that go in and around the surrounding area. There is one passage, however, that is not on this map. We’ll have to take this one,” he tapped on the paper, “to reach the secret entrance.”
“Secret entrance?” Tommy asked, throwing a suspicious look at Sean.
“Yes. I have spent a great amount of time studying about the prophet Daniel. While there are many historians who debate this as the true location of his tomb, I believe it is. But,” he raised a finger to emphasize his point, “I believe that the one the tourists see is merely a diversion for where the prophet is actually buried.”
Sean nodded. “Okay, I’m intrigued. How long will it take us to get there?”
Muhammad shook his head. “Not long. Five minutes to the entrance. Another ten to the secret tunnel. After that, I’m not sure.”
“Wait,” Tommy held up his hand. “What do you mean you’re not sure? Haven’t you been in this tunnel?”
Their host looked up from the papers and shook his head as if the answer was obvious. “No. No one has. It’s still sealed. I only recently excavated enough dirt to be able to see it.”
“How are we going to get through if it’s still sealed?”
Muhammad smiled. “I left all the necessary tools at the location. I doubt anyone would have seen them or stolen them.”
Sean leaned over the table and peered through Muhammad’s eyes. “Time isn’t a luxury we have here. If we don’t get to that tomb, a lot of people are going to die. A madman by the name of Mamoud Al Najaar is trying to beat us to the tomb, and if he succeeds, it’s going to be very bad for all of us.”
Muhammad nodded slowly. “I see. I have heard of this man, Al Najaar. He’s very wealthy. There are some in dark circles who have said he is looking to wage a war on the West.”
“You’ve heard that?”
He shrugged. “Only in whispers. But it’s the whispers you need to listen to the hardest. Men like Al Najaar give good Muslims like me a bad name. I don’t know what beef he has with the West. But I, for one, wish men like him would get over it.”
Sean and Tommy both grinned at the response.
“We all do, brother,” Sean said. Then, “We best get going before my girlfriend starts to wonder what we’re doing in here.”
Muhammad rolled up the maps and stuffed them into protective tubes before returning them to his bag. Back outside, they found Adriana standing with her arms crossed, turning her head from side to side as she watched the thinning crowd of pedestrians.
“Where to next?” she asked as the men appeared from the tea house.
“We follow him.” Sean answered, pointing at Muhammad.
“Sorry for the unwelcome reception you had in there. Old customs, you know.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said.
He smiled and bowed. “Thank you for understanding. Now, since time is of the essence, I suggest we hurry.”
Muhammad took off at a brisk pace, crossing the street without looking and floating down the sidewalk as if he was on a rapid people mover. The others rushed after him, heading toward the center of town. Rising above the apartments and businesses, a white, spiraling cone stood out in the cloudless blue sky: the shrine sitting atop the tomb of Daniel.
34
The entrance to the tunnels wasn’t exactly well hidden. It was, however, well protected. An iron gate covered the arched portal and was locked with a heavy, rusted padlock. A shallow stream of murky water trickled out and into a concrete duct leading away from the tunnel, disappearing into another, smaller hole in a wall thirty feet away.