carried the hint that her career was an illusion, that reality lay within what Warren Clark had to offer, and not within the world she had built for herself. The trouble with that was, there was no room for the real Loring in Warren’s world.
Look forward, she told herself, clutching the papers tightly. Look forward to what? What she had been dreading ever since Warren told her the ship was overdue? It went further back than that. Back to Iraq, to the tablets and the silver flask and the legends and the rock splitting and water gushing and all the nightmares she hadn’t been able to deal with throughout the long dark hours of the war.
Fleeing Iraq, returning to London, burying the artifacts in the bowels of the museum with instructions that they not be touched, researching their origins, learning, learning.... It all flooded back into her mind. She hurried to the kitchen and poured coffee for herself, then thought, no, that would keep her awake the rest of the night, but yes, perhaps it would keep her from dreaming, because she knew what tonight’s dream would be—the faces, the swirling bodies and groping arms, the cries....
Shakily, she sipped the coffee and opened the papers on her kitchen counter, studying Warren’s neatly worded letter “To Whom It May Concern:”... The letter faded from her vision and she saw a frightened young woman after her first year in the field, huddled in the library at the British Museum, poring over Arabic texts and maps and illustrations, growing more and more terrified by the hour. Sleepless nights, long days with her nose in those books, learning, learning.... Taking courage only from the thought that the flask was safely stored in the bottom of the museum, that no one else would ever touch it or even know it was there or what it was. Hoping as she left England and returned to America that it would remain untouched forever, until she died, and the terrible responsibility fell to someone else.... What folly! How stupid to think that she could escape it!
And finally bringing it to America, having it packed in a watertight crate with all the other Iraqi artifacts, believing the propaganda as Warren had said, that the U-boats were finished in the Atlantic. But no, they were far from finished. They had one last little job to do, and they had done it well.
Kirst. She had to get to him, speak to him, learn what he had done with the flask. And that could merely be the beginning.
Chapter 5
Mahmud Yazir carefully measured milk into his tea and stirred it delicately. He tossed the used bag into his wastebasket, then raised the cup and sipped. He edged the old leather chair back so he could squeeze in behind his desk, between the sagging bookshelves and the stacks of borrowed library volumes. Through his closed office door, he heard the laughter of students passing in the corridor. Ignoring them, Yazir tried to relax with his tea. But it was difficult. Loring’s call last night had been anxious, her tone urgent. Yazir was not looking forward to this meeting. Stress was bad for his heart.
He looked up at the faded wall maps opposite his desk, maps of the present-day Middle East and of the ancient Babylonian Empire, the latter covered with thumbtacked notations written in an Arabic scrawl. Beneath the maps were more stacks of books and yellowed periodicals. Yazir thought fleetingly of reorganizing the clutter, then he gazed out the window and saw Loring Holloway hurrying up the walkway to the first-floor entrance.
Yazir recalled the last time she had been to see him, shortly after her return from England. She had breezed in, nervous and excited, wanting to tell him all about her field work in Iraq, but at the last minute, after raising his interest to unbearable heights, she had abruptly decided not to tell him anything. One minute she was in the room with him, the next minute she was gone.
Yazir sighed. Perhaps now he was going to get the story, but why
Look forward, she told herself, clutching the papers tightly. Look forward to what? What she had been dreading ever since Warren told her the ship was overdue? It went further back than that. Back to Iraq, to the tablets and the silver flask and the legends and the rock splitting and water gushing and all the nightmares she hadn’t been able to deal with throughout the long dark hours of the war.
Fleeing Iraq, returning to London, burying the artifacts in the bowels of the museum with instructions that they not be touched, researching their origins, learning, learning.... It all flooded back into her mind. She hurried to the kitchen and poured coffee for herself, then thought, no, that would keep her awake the rest of the night, but yes, perhaps it would keep her from dreaming, because she knew what tonight’s dream would be—the faces, the swirling bodies and groping arms, the cries....
Shakily, she sipped the coffee and opened the papers on her kitchen counter, studying Warren’s neatly worded letter “To Whom It May Concern:”... The letter faded from her vision and she saw a frightened young woman after her first year in the field, huddled in the library at the British Museum, poring over Arabic texts and maps and illustrations, growing more and more terrified by the hour. Sleepless nights, long days with her nose in those books, learning, learning.... Taking courage only from the thought that the flask was safely stored in the bottom of the museum, that no one else would ever touch it or even know it was there or what it was. Hoping as she left England and returned to America that it would remain untouched forever, until she died, and the terrible responsibility fell to someone else.... What folly! How stupid to think that she could escape it!
And finally bringing it to America, having it packed in a watertight crate with all the other Iraqi artifacts, believing the propaganda as Warren had said, that the U-boats were finished in the Atlantic. But no, they were far from finished. They had one last little job to do, and they had done it well.
Kirst. She had to get to him, speak to him, learn what he had done with the flask. And that could merely be the beginning.
Chapter 5
Mahmud Yazir carefully measured milk into his tea and stirred it delicately. He tossed the used bag into his wastebasket, then raised the cup and sipped. He edged the old leather chair back so he could squeeze in behind his desk, between the sagging bookshelves and the stacks of borrowed library volumes. Through his closed office door, he heard the laughter of students passing in the corridor. Ignoring them, Yazir tried to relax with his tea. But it was difficult. Loring’s call last night had been anxious, her tone urgent. Yazir was not looking forward to this meeting. Stress was bad for his heart.
He looked up at the faded wall maps opposite his desk, maps of the present-day Middle East and of the ancient Babylonian Empire, the latter covered with thumbtacked notations written in an Arabic scrawl. Beneath the maps were more stacks of books and yellowed periodicals. Yazir thought fleetingly of reorganizing the clutter, then he gazed out the window and saw Loring Holloway hurrying up the walkway to the first-floor entrance.
Yazir recalled the last time she had been to see him, shortly after her return from England. She had breezed in, nervous and excited, wanting to tell him all about her field work in Iraq, but at the last minute, after raising his interest to unbearable heights, she had abruptly decided not to tell him anything. One minute she was in the room with him, the next minute she was gone.
Yazir sighed. Perhaps now he was going to get the story, but why
Similar Books
