Paradox. Alex Archer
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was in order. I’m not a carbon-14 dating expert, but I know enough to recognize the numbers were all in the right column. I don’t have any reason to doubt the wood is as old as they say.”
“So how did it get there, Ms. Creed?”
She tipped her head to the side. “Not by any flood, I’m pretty sure.”
“Me, too.”
“How, then?”
He laughed. “I don’t know! But I want to find out.”
Their food arrived. In his enthusiasm the rabbi fidgeted in his seat while the waiter set down their dishes. Then he leaned forward over the table, oblivious to the way the steam rising from his duck fogged his glasses.
“What I am sure of is that whatever’s on top of the mountain—this so-called Ararat Anomaly—is a human construct. It must be of inestimable historical value.”
She drew a deep breath, heavy with the fragrant steam. “You make a compelling case, Rabbi,” she said.
“Levi. Please.”
“Levi. Okay. I just—I’m not sure about the kind of people we’d be going with.”
He shrugged. “I’ve led a sedentary life, Ms. Creed. I am a scholar, a man of books, of knowledge, of contemplation. But I am willing to undergo whatever hardships, do whatever it takes, to uncover this secret.” He gave the impression he’d be willing to take his chances with almost anyone, if that would get him at whatever knowledge lay buried in the eternal snows of Ararat.
She wondered if it were some kind of twisted prejudice of hers, to find his scholar’s zealotry so laudable, and that of Bostitch and his Rehoboam boys so scary.
He smiled. “Anyway, from what Charlie and Leif said about you, you have a reputation in certain circles for taking risks and coming back alive. I figure I’ll be all right if I just stick close to you!”
She ate as she studied him. Not much deterred her from eating when she was hungry. Her lifestyle meant she took in a lot of calories and used them all.
You’ve been taken in before, she reminded herself. But the rabbi would have to be a diabolically skillful actor to fake this goofy artlessness, this seeming fundamental decency. He strikes me as kind, she thought. There’s a virtue I encounter way too infrequently.
She sighed. “I hope I can live up to your expectations, Levi,” she said. “I’ll certainly try.”
He lit up. “You mean you’ll do it?”
“Against my better judgment,” she said, “yes.”
4
Annja was sitting at a table with a lot of men in a hotel conference room in Ankara, Turkey.
“You must understand,” said the enormously tall, gaunt man with the eagle’s-beak nose and dark circles under his eyes, “that there exist certain elements within my government who…resent American patronage of Kurdish separatists.” He wore an olive-drab military uniform with a chestful of colorful ribbons.
The room air-conditioning worked with a nasty subliminal whine. It was a race whether it would slowly but inexorably give Annja a blinding headache or drive her mad. It worked though, keeping the temperature to arctic levels despite unseasonable heat in the streets of the Turkish capital outside, almost three thousand feet above sea level in the middle of the central massif of the Anatolian peninsula.
Unfortunately, it also reacted in some insidious way with the smoke generated by their host’s harsh-smelling Turkish cigarette to produce about the same reaction as tear gas in Annja’s eyes. The Ankara Sheraton had a strict no-smoking policy. Apparently being a general of the Turkish army allowed you to opt out on that. Big surprise there, Annja thought.
“Well, General,” Leif Baron said, leaning back in his chair and tapping a pen on the polished tabletop before him. “You should understand the Kurds have been our good friends in Iraq. They’re the best indigenous allies we have there. What was that, Mr. Wilfork?”
“Nothing of consequence,” said the man he’d addressed the last question to. He answered in what sounded to Annja like an Australian accent. It had also sounded as if he’d muttered, “The only ones who don’t switch sides or bloody run away,” under his breath at Baron’s mention of the Kurds.
He wore a tan tropic-weight suit that fit his bulky frame as if he’d picked it off the rack, possibly at Goodwill: the suit was taut to near splitting at the shoulders, straining the buttons over his belly, the fabric bagging and rumpling at the chest. Despite the room’s chill he mopped at his big crimson face with a scarlet handkerchief. His hair was thinning, combed over the top and white-tinged with yellow, although Annja had the impression he was only in his early fifties. She glanced at the equally tall and out-of-shape-looking Charlie Bostitch, who lounged across the table from the general at Baron’s side, looking smug and at ease.
“Nonetheless, the United States has seen fit to provide assistance to certain Kurd groups internationally recognized as terrorists,” the general said. “Indeed, the United States itself so recognized them, before they found a use for their services. Please, gentlemen—I do not raise these points in order to obstruct or cause complications. I, too, am eager for this expedition to take place. But it must be founded on a realistic appraisal of the situation, yes?”
“We’ve paid out plenty of money,” Baron said, lounging back in his seat and crossing one leg over the other. He wore a pale yellow polo shirt, stretched tight over the bulging muscles of his chest and upper arms, and khaki trousers. “That ought to smooth our way.”
“Now, now, gentlemen,” Bostitch said, shaking his head. “Why don’t we all just try to get along, here? We’re men of goodwill. And the issues are bigger than all of us, after all.”
General Orhan Orga gazed at him with his sad bloodhound eyes for a long moment before nodding.
“It is also true,” he said, “that the army feels especially embattled now in its traditional role of maintaining the official secularity of our Turkish Republic against a rising tide of Islamism in political life. It is, I fear, a case of democracy in practice defeating democratic ends.”
“Oh, I can understand that,” Bostitch said, nodding his head. “And after all, you’re fighting the good fight against the Muslim infidel.”
“Dear Lord,” Wilfork said out loud into a sudden silence. Annja noted that even the half-dozen young men, Rehoboam Christian Leadership Academy graduates all, who made up the bulk of the expedition were staring at their leader in something like dismay.
Orga’s mouth compressed to a line beneath his magnificent brush of moustache. “Please understand that a majority of Turks, inside the army and out, are faithful followers of Islam. It is the job of the army, as outlined in our constitution, to maintain a clear distinction between religion and politics. That is all.”
“Ah,” Bostitch said, nodding and smiling. “Separation of church and state. That’s—”
He stopped and did an almost comical take. He’d caught himself just in time praising a political concept he was quite famous for denouncing back home in the States. Annja scratched her upper lip to hide an incipient grin that she just couldn’t quite hold in. She wondered if their fearless leader had been covertly hitting the bottle again.
Despite the whirlwind rapidity with which she’d been whipped from Manhattan’s Chinatown to the Turkish capital of Ankara the process had still managed to entail lots of time sitting in airports waiting for flights. Using that time and Wi-Fi she’d done a bit more research on her current associates. She had discovered some interesting things about their employer. Including that he had a reputation as a real party animal, who every couple of years made a weepy public renunciation of his bad old ways, only to be caught in a few weeks or months half in the bag with his face between some stripper’s boobs. Annja was experiencing more than a few second thoughts.