Iris Johansen - Deadlock

2009

Darlov, Afghanistan

"THAT'S THE END OF IT." J 0 E L Levy stepped back from the bed of the truck with a sigh of satisfaction. "Now, can we get the hell out of here, Emily? I don't like the look of those clouds. All we need is to get caught in a snowstorm to make this trip a total waste of time."

"It's not been a waste of time," Emily Hudson said as she zipped up her fleece-lined jacket. But Joel was right, the temperature had dropped dramatically in the last hour, and the air had a bite to it. "Just because we didn't find anything that we haven't seen before doesn't mean that those artifacts aren't worth saving. It means something to these people, this country."

"Save the lecture for your class at the university," Joel said. "All I know is that we drove all the way up here into the mountains to this little museum that no one but us seems to give a damn about. And no wonder. Most of those artifacts are less than a hundred years old."

"And you wanted to find Alexander's sword or a new version of the Bible." Emily made a face at him. "And I'm not lecturing you. Do you think I'm nuts? I know it would be hopeless. I don't know how you got your doctorate. You're no scholar, you're an Indiana Jones wannabe."

"You're just jealous." Joel grinned. "You want to be Indiana Jones, too, but you're weighed down by paperwork and responsibility. All that stuff is sapping the joy of life out of you. You should never have taken this job, Emily."

She shrugged. "It needed doing."

"And the U.N. wasn't willing to pay anyone else enough to risk their necks like we do." He corrected himself, "Like you do. After this job, I'm going home to settle down and write my memoirs."

"No publisher would buy it. You're only twenty-seven."

"But I've aged in the last five years I've worked with you. I'll lie a little, embroider a little, and then Spielberg will buy my book for the movies."

"Good luck." Joel was always threatening to quit, but he never did. He had a fine mind, but he was too restless for university work and liked moving from country to country. He'd certainly had enough of that working with Emily. The U.N. sent them to the hot spots and war zones of the world to catalog, verify, and move the contents of museums to special preservation centers until it was considered safe to return the cultural treasures to their home bases. Not only did Joel have a Ph.D. in Archaeology and Antiquities, but he was fluent in Hebrew and several other Middle Eastern languages, making him invaluable to Emily. "But if you stay home, Maggie will make you marry her. No more ships that pass in the night."

He flinched. "Maybe I'll go on one more job with you."

"Is that the last load, Emily?" Al Turner stuck his head out the window from the driver's seat. "We'd better hit it. It looks like snow."

"I'm surrounded by weathermen," Emily said as she turned back to the museum. "That's it, Al. You and Don go on. Joel and I will take one more look around, then follow you in the other truck."

"Don't be too long," Al said. "You don't want to be caught by weather in these hills. I know the U.N. said they'd cleared the area of bandits, but they've been wrong before."

No one knew that better than Emily. She and Joel had almost been blown up in Baghdad when the military had assured them that the area the museum occupied was in a safe zone. Joel swore that the U.N. had pressured the military to make a hasty judgment. The artifacts in that museum had been priceless, and the U.N. had not wanted either theft or damage done as a result of the war effort. It would have been "awkward."

The museum had been booby-trapped, and there had not only been treasures lost, but Emily had ended up in the military hospital in Germany with a concussion. Like Joel, she was now wary about trusting any reports of peace in any region. "It's been pretty peaceful so far. And I just got a call that our military escort is almost here."

Al scowled. "They should have been here hours ago. They were supposed to meet us before we even entered this zone."

"That's what I told them. They stopped to help remove a land mine at a village near here. You'll probably run into them before you've gone far." She waved. "Get out of here, Al. I'll see you in Kabul."

She watched the truck go down the hill and then lifted her gaze to the mountains of the Hindu Kush to the north. Magnificent mountains whose rough paths had been walked by Alexander the Great, Russian invaders, and local warlords. They always looked austere, but with those storm clouds hovering over the peaks, they were particularly forbidding. She turned to Joel. "Let's go back and check the cellar again. We were working so fast that I didn't get a chance to examine the walls to see if there were any cubbyholes where the curator might have hidden anything."

He followed her into the building. "Why wouldn't he have taken anything valuable with him?"

"He might have done it. The report said he'd been killed by bandits while he was trying to get out of the area. But you know we've found hidden artifacts before." It wasn't that unusual for museum staffs to pilfer artifacts, then blame warring forces. "Come on. Maybe you'll find the Holy Grail."

"Not likely." He glanced around at the empty cases of the first-floor exhibition room. "We didn't find one display case that could have preserved anything ancient. Cheap, very cheap. I can't figure out why they even had a museum out here in the boondocks. There's only a little village in the valley, and that's practically deserted after all the bandit activity in the area."

That had puzzled Emily, too. The area had just been opened to the U.N. after a violent year of bandit and Taliban activity. It was strange that the museum had appeared to be untouched by the violence taking place around it, but perhaps stranger that it existed here at all. "I was told the museum was funded by Aman Nemid, a member of the National Council who was born in that village. He's very proud of it. He was the one who requested we be sent here to save it."

"Save what? I think that curator would have considered an old print of Casablanca an art treasure."

"It was. I liked that movie." She was already on her way downstairs. "I know, I'm a sentimental slob."

"Yep," he said as he followed her. "You need someone to jar you into the real world. I can't understand why you're not a cynical, hardbitten shrew, considering the job you do."

Her brows rose. "You mean I'm not? What a concession coming from you."

"Well, I have to keep you in line. You'd be impossible to work with if I didn't."

"I am cynical," she said quietly. "I just can't let it poison me. There are scumbags walking this earth, but there are good people too. I figure if I look straight at the goal ahead, maybe I won't see the ugliness." She smiled as she glanced back over her shoulder. "And good company helps the bad medicine go down. You qualify at least seventy percent of the time."

"Ninety percent."

"Eighty-five." She was looking around the dim cellar. It had been used as a storage area as in most museums, and they had packed up everything that qualified as a possible artifact. There were rusting farm tools thrown in the corner, but they couldn't have been over twenty years old and had probably been used in the garden in the back. The few wooden storage boxes piled across the way had already been searched and deemed not worth transporting. "You check that wall. I'll do this one. If you see any cracks, any thickness that might conceal a compartment, give a shout."

"I know the procedure." Joel moved toward the wall and turned on his flashlight. "But we're not going to find anything. Give it up, Emily."