I’m not sure I ever fully understood the flight-or-fight response until now. And the unusual thing is that it’s not because of any perceived threat; rather, it’s the degree to which I am shocked by seeing a familiar face in this setting. I almost stop walking, and I feel the handle of my computer bag slipping through my fingers before I can tighten my grip on both the handle and my thoughts.
I suspected Gordon Reese would have sent another team but I never even considered . . . He hasn’t noticed me, and I keep walking. With any luck I’ll be out the door and checked into another hotel before he’s done with his first drink. What kills that plan is curiosity—the trait mentioned by Reese himself, and the one that has me casting another sidelong glance behind me. It’s then that another person turns away from the bar, and her eyes, as if following a laser pointer, catch mine. I’m speechless for two reasons: the first is that I never expected her to still be in the field; the second is that she’s even more attractive than she was five years ago. In that instant I’m certain that further subterfuge would be wasted and so I change direction. She watches my approach, a surprised and amused smile on her face, but doesn’t alert her companions, for which I am grateful.
“I read your paper about Nordseta in the AJA,” I say from behind Brown. “Very thorough.”
When he turns to see who’s speaking, there is a moment I will likely remember for the rest of my life. It’s the instant when he goes from being puzzled to experiencing a near-debilitating shock. The look on his face almost makes my blown cover worthwhile.
“Hello, Brown,” I say, allowing him to collect his faculties.
The first word out of his mouth is a garbled sound but, with a second effort, he manages a “Dr. Hawthorne?”
I haven’t seen Brown—now Dr. Billings—since KV65. But occasionally I’ll hear about a project he’s leading, or read something he’s written. He turned out to be as brilliant as I thought he was and, as I surmise by the fact that he’s standing and all of his appendages appear to be intact, he’s learned the art of caution. Not quite thirty, he’s among a select group of archaeologists whose services are held in high esteem. Even so, there’s something about running into a former teacher that can make someone, no matter how accomplished, revert to the student role. And while I never instructed Brown in a classroom, that’s splitting hairs.
“I think we’re beyond the ‘Dr. Hawthorne’ stuff. Call me Jack.”
He looks mortified at the prospect, which is funny because I don’t recall finding the transition from Dr. Winfield to Jim at all difficult.
“I can’t believe it,” he says. “What are you doing here, Dr. . . . Jack?” Aside from the surprise at seeing me, I gather that he’s genuinely pleased, and that means two things: no one told him he’d be competing with anyone, and he never considered the possibility on his own.
“I imagine the same thing you’re doing.” I’m getting used to this showing-all-my-cards tactic. If nothing else, it puts the other person on the defensive. And I’d be kidding myself if I thought this would not get back to Reese before the day is through anyway. And then my former employer will realize that I’m not dead.
“Hello, Sarah,” I say, allowing Brown some time to digest what I’ve just said.
“Hi, Jack.”
The smile she gives me is one I remember well, and it still makes me want to look away first. In my periphery I see a troubled look on Brown’s face, which makes me wonder what relationship dynamics I’ve walked into. Of course, he could also be reacting to the suggestion that we are here for the same purpose. As much as I’d enjoy continuing the flirtation with Sarah, Espy doesn’t give me the chance.
“Jack?”
She has appeared at my elbow, carrying both of our bags.
“Esperanza, I’d like you to meet two of my former colleagues. Dr. Brown Billings and . . .” I pause, looking to Sarah to validate an advanced degree, but she shakes her head. “Sarah Ward. Brown, Sarah, this is Dr. Esperanza Habilla.”
There are the requisite nods and pleasantries and I’m observant enough to see the brevity of the exchange between Espy and Sarah. I’m not sure what Espy picked up on but I know her well enough to see the frost. Seeing them together, though, puts Sarah’s charms in perspective. Espy’s in a different league.
The third member of Brown’s party, who has been left out of the introductions, clears his throat. “My name is Fifth Wheel,” he says with a good-natured smile. “And I’m going to go take a nap.”
“That’s Miles Lincoln,” Brown says as the man walks away.
I know that name and, when I connect it to the man who is now disappearing out the door, I have to fight the urge to chase after him. “Miles Lincoln, the art specialist?”
Brown nods.
I shake my head, envious of Brown and his opportunity to work with someone like Lincoln. The man’s presence, however, sets off a few alarm bells—which I’ll have to attend to as soon as I can. Right now I file the fledgling thoughts away and focus on the task at hand. And since I’ve already taken a step down the path of direct inquiry, I see no harm in continuing.
“What brings you two—three—to Lalibela?”
I see a wall come up, but it’s of the general kind. I think he actually missed my earlier reference to our having similar purposes. He thinks this is a random meeting. I see Sarah smirk— an indication that, unlike her companion, she heard my every word.
“We’re doing a fluff piece for
Archaeology Quarterly
on the churches,” he lies. “They wanted it for their December issue, to run before Christmas, but I wasn’t available until now.”
I offer an interested nod, but I almost feel badly that I haven’t given him sufficient time to come up with a more believable prevarication. There isn’t a periodical in the world that would send an archaeological team halfway around the world to conduct noninvasive research that could be accomplished with existing records. That’s throwing money into a stiff wind.
“Sounds interesting,” I say in what I hope is taken as patronization.
He looks embarrassed and, even worse, Sarah appears discomfited for him.
“Why are you here, Jack?” Brown redirects.
“Would you believe that I’m working for a billionaire, who’s hired me to hunt for religious artifacts?” I grin and shake my head. “What a way to spend my winter break, huh?”
I don’t know who is more incredulous: Brown, who has been blindsided, or Esperanza. I’m not looking forward to what words she will use on me later, once we’re alone. Sarah, on the contrary, has a twinkle in her eye that tells me she put it together as soon as she saw me. I give her a wink, and the gesture is not lost on Espy.
The brilliant Dr. Brown Billings is speechless, and despite the fact that the man has never done me a disservice, I am tickled by the whole encounter. At some point, perhaps even today, he will find out that I’m no longer in Reese’s employ, and yet we’re far beyond even the billionaire’s reach.
“Who do you think Reese is paying more?” I prod.
The comment earns a laugh from Sarah, one that pulls red to Brown’s cheeks. I’m enjoying myself—until I catch Espy’s eye. I have a feeling that I’m going to pay dearly for the last five minutes.
T
he place where the rocks and stones cry out.
I know that the biblical allusion is poetic rather than literal, but as Esperanza and I stand on the edge of a forty-foot drop-off, looking down on the roof of a nine-hundred-year-old church carved from a single piece of granite, I would be hard-pressed to think of another place on the planet that better embodies that description.
The rock-hewn churches of Lalibela are among the architectural marvels of the world, and they’re among the short list of things I’ve seen which assure me that, under the right circumstances, man can accomplish anything he sets his mind to. It’s early morning, the breeze is blowing through the valley, and there are few sounds to interrupt us. Espy and I might as well be standing at the edge of the earth for the sense of almost alien beauty that rises from the granite cathedrals.
“It’s unbelievable,” Espy whispers.
I’m in perfect agreement, especially considering the tools the medieval Christians had to work with; but I’m also cognizant of time. I have no idea how many days Brown and his team have already put in. And I’m certain that Reese now knows we survived that unpleasantness in San Cristóbal.
“Ready?” I start down the narrow steps, themselves carved out of the rock, my hand trailing along its cold surface. It’s like walking into a canyon, with sheer cliff faces rising up on either side. The ancient quarry workers began with trenches, pulling granite out to, in some places, a depth of forty feet. And like Rembrandt, only on a massive scale, they formed the lines of the churches, hollowed out the insides, and cut doorways and windows.
Espy and I are descending to Bete Medhane Alem, the largest of the churches. When we reach the base, it’s easier to appreciate the scale of the structure. Several freestanding pillars support the roof, also framing an intricately latticed doorway. The ancient artisans formed perfectly round pillars, cutting out the rock behind them, maintaining precise dimensions from top to bottom.
Even though there are already a large number of visitors in town, I see only a handful of people awake and eager to see the sites. The resident monk is out front, his colorful robes a counterpoint to the muted rock. He holds a long prayer staff and appears ready to outlast the day in that one spot if need be.
He greets us with a broad smile. Another man then appears at our side, gesturing at our feet. I’ve been warned about the shoes, so I slip them off and hand them over, Espy following my lead. I give the man a small tip and head toward the entrance.
“What is he going to do with our shoes?” Espy says, glancing back over her shoulder as the man to whom she has entrusted her pricey togs disappears.
“They’ll be waiting for us on the other side.”
She looks less than convinced but follows me in.
The interior is modeled after a basilica, and as I walk deeper into it, I count five naves. I can’t think of many churches this size with that number. There are more than thirty square pillars supporting a cornice, and Espy runs a hand along one of them. There are places that appear to be rubbed smooth—likely by the hands of countless visitors over the centuries. There’s a lot to take in and I’m trying to oblige, but I can’t move too quickly; I have to trust my gut to see something my eyes might pass over.
I’m drawn to the frescoes. Most of them are badly damaged, and it bothers me that they haven’t been preserved. The parts I can see appear to be the recounting of biblical scenes. Yet several rock carvings have, by their nature, navigated the passage of time with more integrity. There’s more than one theme to the carvings, but I fixate on the animals. I see representations of at least eight different animals, and I can’t decipher any connecting thread between them. I have Alem’nesh’s dragon in my mind, trying to tie it to something, but I feel handicapped by having no idea what I’m looking for.
There are eleven churches, each with its many details, carvings, and murals. And I’m presupposing that what I’m searching for is something that’s visible to the naked eye. That could be a risky premise yet I have nothing else to go on, and I have to believe that as much as it pained Alem’nesh to confide in me, I don’t think he would send me out here with no hope of finding something.
We spend perhaps a half hour inside, while other visitors come and go around us. When we leave, it’s through a tunnel connecting to Bete Maryam—the first of the churches to find its liberation from the rock. It is much like Bete Medhane Alem, but with its own peculiarities such as the windows, which were carved in odd shapes, allowing the light to fall on the Holy of Holies and on the tabot that rests there.
Another half hour passes and neither Espy nor myself are struck by anything out of the ordinary. There’s the very real possibility that we’ve walked right by whatever it is we are here to discover. I’m not sure what I was thinking, how I thought we could visit this place and find what we’re looking for without the months—perhaps years—of exhaustive research that something like this necessitates. Esperanza must catch the souring of my mood because she leaves her perusal of a Maltese cross to link her arm in mine.
“Two down, nine to go. I’d call that progress.”
Although I appreciate the gesture, I do not share her optimism. “You know as well as I do that we could have already missed it.”
“You’re right, we could have. But the way I see it, a few weeks ago I was home writing a grant proposal. Now I’m on the other side of the world, in a nine-hundred-year-old rock church, and I have no idea where my shoes are.”
“I see your point,” I say with a smile. Before I can say anything else, another person enters Bete Maryam and I turn, expecting to see a small group being led about by a private tour guide. Instead, I spot Sarah, who sees us at the same time. When she reaches us, she is almost out of breath.
“I knew you were in this section but I didn’t know which church,” she says.
“How did you know we weren’t over on the eastern side?” Espy asks, her tone frosty.
“Because
we’re
on the eastern side,” Sarah answers. “Besides, I saw your shoes outside. Cole Haan Air Gabis? You were wearing them last night. Very nice.”
Espy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Thanks. You know, I almost didn’t buy them. They just seemed too extravagant.”
“I know, but they’re comfortable, aren’t they?”
“Excuse me, ladies . . .” It’s fine if they want to chitchat about fashion, but Sarah has sought me out for a reason.
She gives Espy an apologetic shrug.
“I just wanted to tell you that a man named Gregory Hardy arrived thirty minutes ago. He works for Reese.”
I nod. “We’ve met.”
“Brown told him you were here and—” She stops, appearing unsure where to take this. “Look, Jack, I don’t trust him. He’s a lot more dangerous than he lets on.”
I exchange looks with Espy, who gives me a grim smile.
I release a sigh, thankful that Sarah cared enough to warn me, yet irritated that we might have another obstacle to contend with before we’re finished here.