The sound of his voice and the look on his face told Kia that his emotions were starting to resurface. To keep him calm, she put her hand on his shoulder and rubbed it gently. Trying to comfort him. Hoping to keep him focused. Still, several seconds passed before he spoke again.
“I’m an old man with a long memory. I know what kind of evil goes on in that cave, so I told Chung-Ho that the village was no longer safe for him and his son. Much to my relief, he didn’t question me. He just put his boy in their car and left. His wife and the rest of his family planned on following, but they never had a chance.”
“Why not?”
“The soldiers came into town in waves, dressed in black and wearing masks. Some of them followed the blood to the boy’s home, while others spread throughout the village. I heard angry voices punctuated by screams, but that’s all I could distinguish. I was too worried about finding a place to hide to make out their words.”
Kia sat quietly, waiting for him to continue.
“The first shot was the loudest. It sounded like a cannon, echoing through the town. Others soon followed, one after the other, coming in sporadic bursts like firecrackers. My house is the last one in the village, which gave me all the time I needed. After the first massacre, I’d built a small shelter under the floor of my house, just in case history repeated itself. I stayed down there for more than four days, barely eating or sleeping. Going to the bathroom in my own pants. When I could take it no more, I slipped into my backyard and listened. There were no sounds. I glanced out my front gate, but there was no movement. That’s when I knew they were gone.”
“Did you call the police?”
He waved his hands in disgust. “The police? Why would I call the police? They were in charge of the first massacre! To this day, half of my family is still somewhere in that cave, their bodies crammed behind a pile of rocks and left there to rot. It is such a disgrace to my family name, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
He took a deep breath before continuing. “Did you know the size of a grave plot in this country is larger than the average amount of living space that our citizens have? That’s right. The dead took up more room than the living. And the cost of all their burials? It would have been more than I could afford.”
She nodded, finally beginning to understand his perspective.
“So I took matters into my own hands. First I went into the boy’s house, but everyone was dead. His mother, his brother and sister, his aunt, his cousins. Everyone. Same with the rest of the village. Every single person and been shot and killed. Bodies just lying there in puddles of their own blood, the smell starting to build. So I walked back to my yard and built a fire. I threw in some pine needles and incense to cover the odor. Then one by one I loaded them into my wheelbarrow and did the proper thing. I freed their souls to the sky.”
17
One of the guards found Fred Nasir’s body near the tunnel entrance. His throat was slashed and he’d been left to die. Blood covered the wooden planks that lined the floor, dried by the desert heat that seeped in from the outside world.
From the looks of things, he’d been dead at least an hour.
Panicked, the guard sprinted down the steep slope, unlocked the metal gate that protected their site, and told Shari Shasmeen what had happened. Her face went pale when she heard the news. As project leader, it was her job to make all the important decisions—what they did, where they worked, and so on—and to take responsibility when things went wrong. And until then, she had accomplished it with remarkable ease. She had fifteen years’ experience in the field and was recruited for her expertise. She was so gifted at her job that the project financier, the Arab who had hired her, was willing to overlook the fact that she was a woman—a remarkable concession in this part of the world.
But a murder? That was way beyond anything she was prepared to handle.
She was a religious archaeologist, not a detective.
Obviously this was a situation she couldn’t handle on her own, not with all the politics involved. So she did the one thing she was told to do if there was ever a major problem.
She called her boss, Omar Abdul-Khaliq.
He answered the phone on the third ring, his voice as composed as ever.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
She explained everything—the delivery, the murder, her concerns. The entire time he said nothing. He just listened, occasionally taking notes.
“This is troubling indeed.” He paused for a moment. “But it can be handled.”
“Handled how?”
“You must listen to me and do exactly what I say.”