"You could have talked to her."
"No, actually, I couldn't have."
As we took the street that led out of Istanbul, I was struck by how fast the desert engulfed us. The view of the sea had been the one sight that had helped keep me sane the past week in the hotel. Now it was gone.
We eventually turned onto a narrow road. Sand dunes rose around us. A stiff wind, it seemed, could easily bury the road. Amesh nodded at my unspoken thought.
"During the storm season, this road disappears," he said.
"On days like that, how do you ride your moped to work?"
"I push it. Besides, I don't have to make deliveries in town every day. A lot of the time I just work out here."
"Well, I hope you liked the taxi ride."
"First time I've been in one."
"You're joking, right?"
"No. It's been fun."
He got out a mile later and gave me a quick heads-up on the design of the job site; specifically, where to find my father if he wasn't at his desk. He said my dad liked to get out and get his hands dirty.
We exchanged cell numbers. He said he would give me a call.
I was flattered at his promise. Silly, I know, but my heart skipped.
A twenty-foot gate topped with barbed wire surrounded the complex. I had to go through a security check. Guards carrying automatic rifles stopped me. I showed them my only form of identification—my passport.
The smallest of the guards took my passport and studied it.
"I'm Sara Wilcox, Charles Wilcox's daughter," I said.
"Do you have an appointment to see him?" he asked.
I smiled innocently. "Well, he's my father. I wouldn't be surprised if he's forgotten that he promised to have lunch with me today."
The guard smiled; he seemed a nice man. But he lifted a phone to call in. The half-completed plant must have feared terrorist attacks to take such thorough precautions. Eventually, he handed me back my passport.
"Your father will meet you at the corner of that building." He pointed to a structure. "Tell your taxi to wait for you."
"Why?"
"Talk to your father about that," the guard said.
The taxi drove me to the designated building. He demanded payment before he let me out. I told him that he might want to hang around, that I would probably be going home soon. He just nodded; he was listening to some weird music on the radio.
I finally got my first clear view of the place.
The construction site for the hydroelectric plant itself was immense, and south of the main building was a large herd of oil wells. From what little my father had told me, the wells were designed to pump out natural gas to fuel the engines that would later create the electricity. But the actual oil the wells found—the black liquid stuff—was something of a nuisance. It had to be hauled away in special trucks.
My dad came out of the building a minute later.
We shared the same blond hair and blue eyes, although he kept his hair cut marine-short, and I had yet to see him outside the hotel without his thick shades. His eyes were not a sky blue like mine. They were darker, and he had an intense stare, which he used to good advantage when he wanted to get his way.
I had a feeling I would be seeing it soon.
My father did not like surprises.
At the same time, I steeled myself for a confrontation. I could not let the whole summer slip by and simply bow to his schedule. It had been his idea I come to Turkey. He owed me a certain amount of time, and if he didn't agree, then I was going to remind him there were plenty of planes leaving for America every day.
Yet he disarmed me with a smile and hug. "Sara. This is a pleasant surprise. How did you manage to find this place?"
"There are only so many hydroelectric plants being built in Istanbul. How are you doing, Dad? I was hoping that you weren't too busy and we could have lunch together."
He glanced at his watch—it was close to noon—and shifted uneasily on his feet. "Lunch sounds great. I just wish you'd given me more warning. I could have arranged things."
I nodded to the rows of what were clearly temporary buildings behind him. "Come on, Dad, there's got to be at least one cafeteria out here. You know I'm not fussy. I'll have what the troops are having."
He frowned at my mention of troops.
"That's the problem. There are only a few female employees here during this construction phase. And the men, when they take a break, they prefer to eat alone."
"You mean, they prefer to dine without females present?" I said, not bothering to hide my annoyance. He quickly held up his hands.
"This form of segregation is practiced in America. Especially when you have a job site where ninety-nine percent of the employees are male."
"Really? When was the last time you worked on such a site?"
"Sara..."
"Dad. I just want to have lunch with you and maybe get a quick tour of the place. That's not asking a lot. The hotel is nice but you're the only one I know in this whole country. You know what I mean?"
He considered. I had asked without whining, which was wise. He did not respond well to emotional outbursts. Finally, he nodded and took me by the hand.
"We'll have lunch, and I'll give you a tour. Just as long as you listen to me when I say where we can go and where is out of bounds."
I felt a rush of relief, not realizing how tense I had been about our possible showdown. I leaned over and kissed his cheek.
"I'll follow your orders to the T" I promised.
I let the taxi go. The driver looked disappointed when I only tipped him ten lira. What the heck; it was almost seven bucks.
I ended up causing a stir when I entered the all-male cafeteria, but it vanished when I smiled and waved to the men. My charm—or the fact that my dad was one of the bosses—quickly evaporated the tension. Soon we were gorging ourselves on lamb chops, rice, and goat cheese, which I developed an immediate taste for.
The tour of the site proved less successful. My dad found a stripped-down Jeep and drove me around the oil wells and the makeshift office buildings. However, when it came to the main site—where two hundred cranes were performing massive excavation, and thick walls of concrete were being poured night and day—he only let me have a distant glimpse through binoculars. I asked why. He said there were security reasons.
"I'm sorry, but it all seems like a bunch of paranoia to me," I said.
He considered. "Maybe there's a place I can show you that's supposed to be off-limits."
"What is it?"
"A cave."
"Just a cave?"
"It's what the cave leads to. I may be the chief engineer when it comes to this job, but you remember what a hard-core archaeological buff I am. Well, there's this cave that leads to ruins we suspect might be older than anything mankind has ever discovered."
I was getting really interested. "You're kidding me. How old do they think they are?"
"The experts we've hired say seven thousand years."
"But Sumerian civilization..."
"Was six thousand years ago. These ruins might be older. Now, I know I can take you to the cave entrance. But getting permission to go inside will be another matter."
I trembled with excitement. I loved archaeology myself. "Please try hard, Dad," I said.
"No promises."
We drove away from the buildings and pit, and down a steep hill to a cave entrance. I was surprised to see Mr. Toval and Mrs. Steward, my father's bosses, hanging out there.
Mr. Toval was from Jordan. He was a Muslim, dark-skinned and tall. The man never seemed to age. I had seen pictures of him and my dad taken before I was born and he looked the same as he did now—at sixty years of age. My father said it was not fair; he was jealous of the guy. Mr. Toval was always polite to me but I nevertheless found him cold.
Mrs. Steward was the reverse. She was from the Midwest and looked like a classic grandmother. She waved as we drove up. She loved talking about New Age topics and had a vast collection of
crystals. She occasionally gave me pendants to wear when she visited us in Raleigh. Since they gave me headaches, I never wore them long, but her heart was in the right place.
It was odd how the three were so different and yet they were really close. For years they had worked different job sites all over the Middle East, but always for Becktar Corporation.
My dad parked our Jeep, and Mrs. Steward came over and gave me a hug while Mr. Toval simply nodded hello.
"I assume your dad has told you about our little secret," Mrs. Steward said, pointing to the cave. "Isn't it exciting?"
"I'd be a lot more excited to see the ruins," I said.
"Charles, check with Bill," Mr. Toval said. "Tell him your daughter's here. He's the lead archaeologist on the site today. He has the final say on who gets in."
My father walked toward the cave entrance and disappeared. I stayed seated.
"I thought you guys were in control," I said.
Mrs. Steward shook her head. "We were until we told the government what we found. Technically, we own this land but we can't do whatever we want here."
Mr. Toval studied me. "Sun bothering you, Sara?"
"I'm all right." But no sooner had he asked than I began to sweat like a pig. It was odd, in the desert, to feel your own sweat. It usually evaporated so fast. Mrs. Steward offered me a bottle of Evian.
"Go ahead, drink," she said.
The bottle was glass, not plastic. It was freezing cold. I feared if I drank too much I would get cramps. I took a few gulps and began to feel dizzy. I told Mrs. Steward as much.
"You've only been in the country a week," she said. "It takes a month to adapt to this heat. Drink more; splash some on your face."
I obeyed her instructions, but most of the water ended up on the floor of the Jeep. My dizziness remained.
My father was a long time returning, and when he did, he said Bill was in a bad mood and wouldn't let anyone in to see the ruins.
"Maybe next week, Sara," my father said as he climbed in the Jeep.
"I don't know if that's a bad thing," Mr. Toval said. "I'm afraid your daughter's showing signs of heat stroke."
My dad was worried. "Are you sick?"
I forced a smile. "I'm fine." I looked around for Mrs. Steward to thank her for the water, but to my surprise she had already left. I told my dad, "I can always see the ruins another day."
We drove back to the entrance and my father called for a taxi. He told me he had to get back to work, that he was sorry he could not stay with me until the taxi arrived.
"It's okay," I said. "I'm just glad we got to hang out together."
"Will you be awake when I get back to the hotel?"
"Sure." I gave him a quick hug. "I'll be waiting for you."
My father left me at the security building, a boxlike structure with no air-conditioning. A half-hour passed and still there was no taxi. I tried calling for one. Unfortunately, everyone who answered spoke Turkish.
I thought of asking a guard for help, but decided to call Amesh instead. He answered right away, and when I explained the situation, he acted angry.
"Your father should have stayed with you until the taxi came."
"I did drop by unannounced. He has work to do. Can you call me another taxi?"
"Yeah. But it might cost seventy lira to get back to the hotel. The taxi has to drive all the way out here to get you."
"I figured as much," I said.
"I'll go to the gate and make sure you get off okay."
"You don't have to do that, Amesh."
"Sara, I don't have to do anything."
It was then I realized he might want to see me again!
He arrived a few minutes later, and this time he was not ashamed to be seen with me. I understood. He could not be seen returning from Istanbul with a girl while he was on the clock. But now our roles had changed. I was simply a visitor who needed help.
His cell suddenly rang. I assumed it was the taxi company calling back to say they couldn't pick me up after all, but as I watched, his face darkened. I knew the news must be bad. He hung up and jumped on his moped.
"What's wrong? What happened?" I asked.
"It's my friend, Spielo. There's been an accident. He fell into the concrete pour."
"Is that bad? Can't they get him out and wash him off?"
Amesh was pale. "You don't understand. They pour the concrete all the time, no stopping, into shafts hundreds of feet deep."
I grimaced. "He hasn't fallen into one of those, has he?"
He was already leaving. "I have to go see. Wait here until I come back."
"I can't just stand here. I want to help."
Amesh shook his head. "There's nothing you can do."
He rode off, leaving a trail that was easy to follow. I hesitated perhaps five seconds before I decided to go after him. I figured I would not get far, that the guards would stop me.
Yet no one bothered me. Several Jeeps sped by in the direction of the main pit where I had to assume Spielo had had his accident. But the men in the vehicles hardly looked at me.
I had walked for twenty minutes and was about to pass out from the heat when I reached the edge of the hole that was to house the bulk of the power plant. To say it was massive would be an understatement. It looked like a crater that had been formed by a meteor crash. Standing on the edge of it, looking down, I could see the different layers of earth. The deeper it got, the darker red the sand became.
Suddenly a Turkish woman in a veil was standing beside me.
"Impressive, yes?" she asked in a thick accent.
"Yes. But I'm worried. I heard that someone fell into the concrete."
The woman pointed a finger that was studded with jewelry.
"Down there, it looks like a party. He must be okay."
Deep in the eye of the crater, I saw a line of revolving concrete trucks and a cluster of happy men. I assumed they were happy—they were dancing and carrying a young man through the air. That had to be Spielo. I'd missed his rescue by minutes. What relief I felt, for his sake and Amesh's.
"You're right," I told the woman. "He must be fine."
"You seem surprised," she said.
"It's just that a friend of mine acted like no one could survive that kind of accident."
The woman turned and stared at me through her veil. It was black; her face was dark. I could not tell her age.
"True. The boy is lucky to be alive." Then she suddenly handed me a water bottle. "You look tired, thirsty. Come, sit over here and rest."
The woman led me to a spot a hundred yards to the right, deeper in the pit, where there was a row of boulders. I sat and assumed she would join me, but she excused herself.
"I cannot stay," she said, and quickly walked away.
Sitting inside the crater, I marveled at how much richer the red-colored sand was here than on the rest of the job site.
It was then my hand brushed a piece of material sticking out from beneath the ground. It was as red as everything else, but it was definitely cloth. The more I pulled on it, the more came out. Finally I yanked it free—a thick sheet, about seven feet long and four feet wide. It was so completely coated with hard red dirt, I was surprised I recognized it at all.
Yet the instant I held it in my hands, my fingers trembled.
I knew it was a carpet. A very old carpet.
CHAPTER TWO
THE HIKE TO THE CRATER, and the effort I had spent digging up the carpet, had exhausted me. I did not want to interrupt Amesh during what was surely a joyful time, but I needed a ride back to the entrance. Particularly if I was going to carry the carpet. With all the dirt on it, the thing weighed at least forty pounds.
I took out my cell and dialed his number.
He sounded happy to hear from me. He sounded happy, period! Spielo was alive! Yet whatever joy he felt over his friend's rescue vanished when he finally caught up with me and saw what I was carrying.
"You're crazy! You can't take that with you!" He and his m
oped were covered with red dust from the celebration in the bottom of the pit. Again, I was struck by how well muscled his legs were.
"Why not?" I asked innocently.
"It's dirty! No taxi's going to give you a ride with that thing."
"We'll wash it off. It'll dry quickly in this heat."
"Why bother? It's just a piece of old cloth."
"Amesh, get a clue! It's a carpet! It might be a really old carpet."
He gave it a closer look, but was not impressed. "If it is a relic, then there's no way you can take it. The guards at the gate will stop you."
"I already thought of that. I have a plan."
"No plan. No way either of us is going to jail."
"Would you at least listen to what I have to say?"
He wiped the sweat from his brow. "Say it."
"Help me wash it off and I'll tell you," I said.
Only a handful of men were heading back toward the entrance. Most were probably still in the pit. Amesh was able to stow the muddy carpet on the back of his moped—he had a fair-size basket—but there was no room for me. I had to hurry to keep up. No one gave us a second look.
Not far from the gate, he veered behind an office building that stood beneath an elevated water tank. The tank's hose was as thick as a fireman's. Indeed, it was probably there in case of a fire. The nearby office building had no windows. We appeared to be alone.
Amesh tried shaking the dirt off the carpet, but it was too much a part of the material. He ended up laying the carpet on the ground and turning the nozzle on full strength. I had to stand on one end of the carpet to keep it from washing away. We worked on a strip of asphalt that could have fried eggs, it was so hot. The cool water felt fantastic on my bare legs.
"Turn it over, Amesh!" I shouted. The "old cloth" was magically taking on color, and I was not the only one who was seeing it in a new light. Excitement began to show on Amesh's face. "Let's lower the water," I said. "I don't want to damage it."
"We need the water on hard to wash it clean," he said, ignoring me. There were no two ways about it—Arab boys didn't like American girls telling them what to do. I knew we weren't going to get the carpet out of the complex without a fight.
When he was done hosing it off, I laid it on a dry piece of asphalt. The instant the scalding heat and damp material touched, a wave of steam rose.