“Israel is part of the Levant, the cradle of civilization.”
Ethan glanced across the barren landscape baking beneath the equatorial sun.
“Doesn’t look like much.”
“Not now it doesn’t,” Rachel agreed, “but twelve thousand years ago the Levant was a very different place. Back then, this would have been a lush and fertile land, and the Sumerian legends describe the origins of their civilization here through unusual means.”
“Like the Bible?” Ethan asked.
“Sumerian legends tell of a god named Oannes,” Rachel explained. “Oannes rose out of the Persian Gulf in what is described as a diving suit, and is depicted as an amphibious being. Many legends state unequivocally that Oannes came from under the sea. Oannes is the culture bearer for the Sumerian civilization, who is said to have brought them the arts of writing, agriculture, and tool making.”
From the front seat, Aaron Luckov peered at them curiously.
“Is this what you’re going to tell the government when you meet them—legends?”
“What contact have you had so far with the Knesset?” Ethan asked.
“In this, I have excelled,” Aaron stated proudly, not noticing Safiya rolling her eyes. “I have an appointment for you at the United States embassy this afternoon, and there will be a member of the Israeli Foreign Ministry present.”
Rachel turned from looking out across the sun-scorched land and the twinkling blue Mediterranean beyond. “How did you manage that?” she asked.
“I spoke to a few contacts in the West Bank and Tel Aviv and they put me in touch with the Foreign Ministry. Your name was mentioned, and they understood immediately. There’s a lot of sympathy for what’s happened, and they understand your frustration at their reluctance to broadcast your daughter’s disappearance because of the peace negotiations.”
“Well done,” Ethan said, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
Aaron smiled awkwardly. “There was a price to pay.”
“What do they want?” Ethan asked.
“Security,” Aaron said. “They’re determined that you remain under armed guard throughout your stay here, to prevent any further kidnappings. We’re to meet with your escort first, and I don’t like any of them.”
MEDICAL EXAMINER’S OFFICE
MASSACHUSETTS AVENUE, SE, WASHINGTON DC
You know I hate this part.”
Lucas Tyrell grinned at Lopez as he drove the car into the parking lot and killed the engine.
“You’ve gotta get used to it. Just don’t get too used to it, or I’ll have you sectioned.” He turned to Bailey, who sat quietly in the rear seat. “Sit tight, buddy, shouldn’t take too long.” He tossed a handful of biscuits into the rear of the car and then clambered out, mopping his brow as he caught his breath.
Truth was, he felt the same about morgues as she did, and he had far more experience than she. Not for the first time he wondered what had kept her in the District.
Nicola Lopez had emigrated with her family to DC almost twenty years before as a gangly nine-year-old from Guanajuato, Mexico, a ramshackle town nestled in the Veeder Mountains. She had been raised a Catholic amid the cobbled streets and quaint markets far from the hustle and bustle of America’s capital city. Dragged by a family searching for a better life away from the crippling silver mines of Las Ranas, they had found instead only a better quality of misery, where endemic poverty and poor sanitation had been replaced with housing projects, fast food, and type 2 diabetes. Her disillusioned parents had returned to Mexico five years previously, closely followed by her two brothers, one sister, and last remaining grandparent. She said that she hadn’t seen any of them since, although they wrote and spoke on the phone often.
Nicola had stayed, apparently enthralled by the rush, glamour, and danger of America. It had been the drastic change of surroundings and endless junk television that had prompted her to join the MPD as soon as she was old enough, her imagination flying high on a diet of cop dramas depicting police department and FBI offices as marvels of high-technology fecundity: ranks of glossy black desks and glowing blue lights, giant screens with satellite links and connections direct to the White House. The reality, Tyrell knew, had been far more austere. Even so, it was a better life for her than stabbing needles into her arm in some frozen subway shelter or running with the Latino gangs out of Shaw and Columbia Heights.
The medical examiner’s office was tasked with the investigation and certification of all deaths in the District of Columbia that occurred unexpectedly or as a result of violence. Positioned conveniently