It was around that time when Storm was finally able to guess what was going on there. He saw an ancient block sandstone structure sticking out of the ground. It had an entrance that led underground. Most of the activity that wasn’t focused on Storm and Strike seemed to be centered around that entrance.
“Any thoughts?” Strike said.
“It looks like some kind of archaeological dig to me.”
“I agree. And ordinarily I would say that means they won’t be belligerent toward us. Except I see guns on several of those men.”
“Only because they’re more scared of us than we are of them,” Storm said. “Why don’t you start talking to them? Hearing a woman’s voice will calm them. I’m going to raise my hands real high, but I want you to keep yours under your burka, on the trigger of that little cannon you’re carrying. Just in case. We good?”
“Got it,” Strike said.
She began calling out in loud, friendly Arabic: “Good day, my friends. We are but peaceful travelers. We mean you no harm. Lower your weapons, please. Again, we come in peace.”
Storm studied the muzzles trained on them and the guns behind them. They were old guns, probably inaccurate to start with and poorly maintained on top of it. Sand wreaked havoc on a weapon, especially one that wasn’t properly cleaned. Even if these clowns wanted to shoot Storm and Strike, they’d probably fail.
Eventually, Strike’s words had their intended effect. Storm watched as the muzzles lowered. They were close enough to be able to see the smiles on the men’s faces.
And that one of them wasn’t a man.
She also clearly wasn’t Egyptian. Storm could see wisps of blond hair escaping from her loosely worn hijab. And freckles across the bridge of her nose. And bright blue eyes. And a certain posture and confidence that suggested a very attractive young woman was hidden underneath the swaddles of cloth that hid her from the sun and, at the moment, most of Storm’s inquisitive examination.
“Hello, there,” Storm said in English, directing his words toward her. “My name is…Talbot. Terry Talbot. And this is my partner. Her name is Sullivan. Sally Sullivan.”
“Oh, hello,” she said. “I’m Dr. Katie Comely.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Storm said, smiling.
“A little too pleased, I’d say,” Strike grumbled under her breath, shooting him a look that could have been used to make the opening incision for heart surgery. Storm returned her glare with a blank face, a front affected throughout the world by men who are desperately trying to pretend they did not notice the attractiveness of another woman in their midst.
They had gotten close enough that their camels were now regarding each other at least as closely as the humans. Antony let out a groan and was again starting to slobber. Luckily, the humans seemed to be friendlier in their greeting. Storm watched as Dr. Comely’s eyes went wide for a second, and then seemed to fill with understanding.
“Are you with the I-A-P-L?”
“Sorry?” Storm said.
“The International Art Protection League. I just…I saw the gun sticking out of your pack there, and I—”
Strike was about to correct her, when Storm jumped in. “Yes. Yes, we’re with the International Art Protection League. Sorry, normally when people refer to us by our acronym, they say ‘i-apple,’ kind of like iPhone, but, yes, we have guns. And camels. And we are here to protect you. Your art. You and your art.”
“I’m so, so relieved you’re here,” Comely said. “We’ve been having the worst problems with bandits. They’ve stolen so many of our finds, I just can’t even begin to…”
She turned and yelled to a man who was just coming out of camp on his camel. “Professor, it’s the art protection people!”
Katie was smiling like she was a devout pilgrim and Storm and Strike were the Second Coming.
“May I present Dr. Stanford Raynes,” she said.
The man road his camel with a jerky hesitance. He was tall and thin and had a haughty, academic air that Storm immediately disliked. Still, he smiled and again exchanged names.
“Won’t you join us in camp?” Katie said.
“It would be our pleasure,” Storm said, spitting out the words before Strike could find the language that went with her scowl.
“Wonderful, wonderful. You can even help us extract our latest find from the tombs. It is potentially very, very exciting. But it’s also sort of heavy,” Katie said, turning her full attention to Storm. “Not that it would be a problem for you. You look like you could lift a tank. You must work out a lot, Mr. Talbot.”
“I’ve been known to,” Storm said.
Strike now had murder in her eyes, but she said nothing.
“Well, come on then,” Katie said. “We’ll have a rest while we wait for that big ball of fire to go away, but then there’s much to be done.”
CHAPTER 18
SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE EAST
n the far wall of Ahmed’s office, there was a large painting of a scene from “The Three Apples,” one of the tales related by Scheherazade in One Thousand and One Nights.
In it, a fisherman discovers an ornate trunk, which he sells to the caliph, the ruler of all Islam. When the caliph opens the trunk, he finds the body of a young woman, hacked to pieces. The caliph dispatches his wazir — his chief advisor — to find the murderer, giving the wazir three days to accomplish this task or else face death himself.
On the third day, the wazir has failed and is about to be executed when two men appear, both claiming to be the murderer. The story unfolds from there with a series of turns, each more unexpected than the next, made all the more extraordinary when you remember the teller of the tale, Scheherazade, was trying to save herself from beheading by a merciless king.
To modern scholars, “The Three Apples” is one of the earliest known examples of a thriller in literature, relying as it did on an unreliable narrator and a multitude of plot twists to enthrall readers.
To Ahmed, it was a reminder that no one can be trusted and nothing is as it seems.
Which was fitting, because the painting wasn’t just a painting.
It was also a door that led to a secret place, a chamber tall enough for a man to stand in, deep enough to stash anything of value. One of Ahmed’s ancestors had created it, to hide who-knows-what from who-knows-whom.
Ahmed had actually played in it as a boy. He’d steal some halva from the kitchen, fill an amphora with water, and scurry in early in the morning, before his father had finished his breakfast. Then, sufficiently provisioned, Ahmed would spend the day in there, spying on his father. The painting was transparent from the inside in a few places, allowing Ahmed to see out even though no one could see in. He would stay there, very quietly, listening intently to the conversations that passed between the men who came in.
Ahmed called the compartment aman, Arabic for safe.
Eventually, his father discovered what Ahmed was doing. But rather than scold his son, he praised the boy’s cleverness. He bid Ahmed to cease entering aman surreptitiously. But, every now and then, he would invite his son in to eavesdrop on an important conversation.
Now pay attention to this, he’d say. This man is going to ask me to sell to him for a hundred gineih a unit. I will tell him such thing is not possible, that no one could sell for so little, that I will not be able to feed my family on that amount. I will plead and be quite pitiful. Eventually, he will acquiesce and accept a hundred-and-twenty-five, never knowing that it only cost me fifty.