The Secret of Ka (2 page)

He was interested but hesitant. "Girls aren't allowed where the men work."

"Christ, that's ridiculous," I snapped.

"Shhh, Sara, don't swear, this is an Arab country."

"
Christ
is a swear word here? Wait, never mind, I'm sure it is. Look, there's got to be some women who work there."

"There are a few. But the site's dangerous. It's easy..." He hesitated, before adding, "to get hurt there."

It hit me then that he had probably lost his hand at work.

We stopped in front of room 1026. "If you don't mind waiting, I'll just be a few minutes," I said.

"Okay," he said. It sounded as though he was finally agreeing to my plan.

I hurried inside and grabbed my bag and a wad of Turkish bills from my dad's room. I put on a hat along with my sunglasses.

Before leaving the suite, I placed the package on the night table beside my father's bed and swiped two bottles of Coke from the minibar. When Amesh saw the soda, his face lit up. He had the whitest teeth. I opened a bottle and handed it over.

"Thank you." He must have been thirsty. He gulped down half of it before adding, "I'll take you there, but the taxi has to drop me away from the front gate. My boss doesn't pay me enough to ride in taxis. You have to get yourself inside."

"That won't be a problem," I replied.

Downstairs, he gave the woman at the desk the battered address slip, and she was able to read enough of it to give him the paperwork he needed.

The perimeter of the hotel was always crowded with taxis. One lira, I knew, was worth roughly two-thirds an American dollar. So fifty lira—or thirty-five bucks—was not cheap for a one-way ride. Then again, I wasn't paying for it; my father was. Fair was fair, I thought. He was the one who had locked me up in the blasted hotel for the last week.

Amesh had been right about having to argue with the taxi driver. Since they spoke Turkish, I didn't understand a word they said, but it sounded as if they were insulting each other's mothers. Twice they came close to blows. But finally it was settled, and the driver loaded Amesh's moped in the trunk and we were on our way.

"How much is he charging us?" I asked.

"Fifty lira," Amesh replied.

"You knew that ahead of time. He must have known the price."

"Yes. But if we didn't barter, we would both feel cheated."

The road was hot and dusty. I had to insist the driver put up all the windows and turn on the air-conditioning. He told Amesh that would cost an additional five lira because he would have to use extra gas. This time I spoke up. Leaning forward, I held up fifty lira and said, "Fifty! No more! Understand?"

My tone must have frightened him. He did as he was told. Amesh was impressed. "You must have Turkish blood in you," he said.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

While we drove, I learned a lot about Amesh. He had seen almost every movie I had, but I was shocked to discover he had read even more books. He said he got them at the library. He had a grandfather—his Papi—who had taken over his education at an early age. He had lost both parents in a car accident when he was ten. That's when he had dropped out of school. His Papi needed him to work to help pay the bills, but the old man was determined that his grandchildren would go to college.

Besides his grandfather, he had a ten-year-old sister, Mira. The mere mention of her name caused his face to brighten.

The three seemed to have something my parents and I would never share. They were more concerned about each other than themselves. His family lived together in a one-bedroom apartment. They ate their meals together. Here, I didn't even know where my father worked.

Ironically, I got a call from my mother while still in the taxi. She wanted to talk, but her definition of talking was she made all the sounds and I sat and listened. Yet she did miss me; she had not wanted me to be away from home so long. I felt sort of guilty cutting her off, but I simply couldn't act interested in her boring life with such a cute guy sitting beside me.

"I'm really sorry, Mom, but I can't talk now."

"But you said you're just driving in a taxi."

"That's it, I can't hear you, it's loud. Call me tonight."

"But..."

"Or I'll call you. Goodbye, Mom. Love you."

I hung up fast. Amesh was staring at me. I smiled.

"Sorry," I said.

"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.