I’m so sure I’m on to something I can’t wait to get started. Why hasn’t anyone else ventured to this part of the desert to dig? I know the answer. So often, the academic community races across an excavated area like rabbits running across a color-rich Afghani carpet. The area becomes a blur of yellows and reds and blues. They spend their lives racing back and forth, studying a small portion at a time, never seeing the patterns, even with the help of satellite photos converted to digital images.
But this bearded archaeologist from long ago photographed the area from the air, making low flights over the desert to search for hidden ruins in a time before plows and irrigation systems destroyed large areas of archaeological record. He found something out in the desert near the tels, the ancient mounds common in the Near East formed where people lived in mud-brick houses and built on top of the remains of fallen structures. A sword and broken shield, a goblet, but not everything.
I’m going to change that. I heard the whispers.
I have no problem getting together a team of diggers, thanks to Ahmed, along with a cook—an Arab woman tattooed from her forehead to her chin with two children in tow. His wife and sons, Ahmed tells me proudly. I laugh and agree to take them along with us. Why not? With the woman’s patience enduring her husband’s constant chatter, smiling and following behind him with reverence, she allows him to lead yet she exudes strength. I admire that.
Ahmed hires a driver and I set out to acquire my permit to dig. I’m not worried. In the Near East, few prejudices exist against female archaeologists. Everywhere I go, my projects are well received, often welcomed by local antiquities dealers and museum curators.
Until I meet up with Dr. Hassan Omar from the National Museum in Aleppo.
“No, I can’t give you a dig permit.” Dr. Omar picks up a big, green, shiny olive from a glass tray and chews on it, his dark, searing eyes never leaving me.
“But why?” I ask, pressing my point. “All my paperwork is in order. My letter from the university, bank credit, passport—”
“No.” He continues chewing on the olive, sloshing it around in his mouth.
“Listen, Dr. Omar,” I continue, my voice strong but even, attempting to smile to alleviate the growing tension between us. I refuse to let this man get the better of me after what I had to do to see him. His male secretary insisted he was too busy to listen to my plea, so I sneaked into his office when the assistant left for lunch, then waited for the director to return and convinced him I was an archaeologist.
“A team from a well-known university in the States recently got a permit to dig in the northwestern region near the Tel Kalaf,” I insist, tossing out phony information, knowing it normally takes months to get a permit but hoping he’s too busy to check out my story. What do I have to lose? Any minute now Security will barge in here and throw me out. “I’m only asking for a short time. Two weeks.”
“I repeat, no.” He takes the slick, nude olive pit out of his mouth and tosses it onto the tray, then licks his lips, his eyes riveted on my chest. His obvious salacious pleasure in the salty taste isn’t lost on me. I can guess what else is on his mind.
I cast my eyes downward, notice my hand is shaking. Think. Don’t get angry. Losing my cool isn’t going to work with a man whose stony expression reminds me of the ancient, stoic-faced basaltic statues standing guard at the front of the museum, their strange, staring eyes painted huge and white to increase their effectiveness in their duty. Besides, I don’t have much time. A khamsin, winds blowing from the east importing extremely hot and dusty air from Saudi Arabia, is forecast in the next few weeks. The tem-perature can climb to a hundred and twenty degrees, making it impossible to sustain any work on an excavation.
I look up at him and cringe. Flashing my university creds isn’t good enough for him. I have a distinct feeling flashing something else would work better when I see him straightening his torso up off his padded chair to get a better look down the front of my shirt. Perspiration rolls down my neck and settles between my breasts. A pulsating noon heat zapped my energy and I didn’t bother to button up. A single layer of white lace hugs my cleavage, a stark contrast against my suntanned skin. God knows what he’s thinking, where this conversation is going, his eyes strip-searching me with the cool methodical gaze of a man used to discerning the tiniest detail. I imagine him probing the intimate crevices of the statue of an Assyrian queen with his greasy fingers. The thought makes me shiver.
To ease my tension, I scan his office. The room is open, airy, with sleek, black, modern furniture. In direct contrast, women wearing lightweight georgette abayas, long robes covering everything but their hands, their heads covered, scurry in and out, leaving paperwork on his desk and, though they take great care not to show it, listening to our conversation. We speak in English, but the brash tone of our voices clearly indicates a disagreement between us.
“I’ve hired a team of diggers,” I comment, hoping to appeal to his civic pride. “All local men. Fair pay.”
“I see. Can you trust these men?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation, though the truth is I know little about Ahmed and the diggers he found except they need work and appear strong and healthy.
“You are a most interesting young woman, Miss Malone,” he begins, getting up from his desk and walking around to face me. We stand eye to eye, though I’m taller. A strong, oily smell, mixed with something I can’t identify, assaults my senses. I don’t back down. “Breaking into my office and not even apologizing for your bold actions. How American.”
“We call it ‘going for it.’”
“I’ll make a note of that,” he snaps, his breathing ragged, his eyes going for a better look at my breasts. “I should have you thrown out of here, but I’m most curious, why do you wish to dig in that part of the desert?”
“A hunch.” No way am I going to tell him about the photos I found. I need him, but I don’t trust him.
“And you call yourself a scientist?” His tone harbors more than a hint of humor.
“Yes, Dr. Omar, but I’m a woman, too.”
“So I’ve noticed.” He walks around me as if conducting a perfunctory inspection, his eyes devouring my flesh, though he doesn’t touch me.
I ignore his comment. “I believe in instinct. A scientist can’t rely on calculations alone—”
“I also believe in following my instincts,” he says, breathing on me, his strong male scent suffusing my senses and making me turn away. Fool. That’s exactly what he wants. I shudder as he slides his dark, leathery hand over my thigh and cups my crotch, squeezing me hard, making me cry out in shock, then letting me go. I look down. Grease stains my light-colored pants an ugly brown.
“Dr. Omar, you—you—”
“I imagine you’re wet—and tight. Very tight, eh?”
Embarrassed, I look out the tall window, watching the puffs of clouds moving across the pale blue sky. I remember hiking out to the old fortress, those same clouds hanging like a backdrop against the remnants of the ramparts silhouetted against the sky. Seeing them illuminated by the sun, knowing at night they’re hidden by the darkness fascinates me, as if new artifacts wait for me to find them and bring them out of the darkness. I take a deep breath. I must continue my work, though I refuse to suffer more humiliation from this man.
“It seems I’ve wasted your time, Dr. Omar.” I turn away, pull damp straggles of hair off