not move.”
After that, Dmitry followed his own advice. He did not try to stare at the shadows ahead of him. He watched them from the corners of his eyes, where his vision would be at its sharpest.
Gradually, the shadows turned into men dressed in loose trousers and shirts. They carried bags over their shoulders and looked warily about. Some of them carried rifles in one hand.
Tomb robbers? Dmitry tried that logic in his mind, but it didn’t feel right. Men who were interested in stealing artifacts would be looking nearer to camp. This was interesting, and he had no explanation for it. He stood in the shadows and remained unseen.
After the last one entered the cave, Dmitry again leaned toward the young lieutenant. “Go get help.”
“Who?” Chizkov was nervous. They were the only two agents at the camp.
Dmitry thought quickly. During the time he had been at the dig site, he’d quietly assessed the people he came in contact with. That was how he had known Glukov was obsessed and the American linguist was a man who would get into trouble.
How much Lourds had to do with the men entering the cave had yet to be seen.
“You have met Layla Teneen, yes?”
“Yes.”
Dmitry had known the Afghanistan professor would have attracted the young lieutenant’s attention. She was a very beautiful woman, very strong in her independence.
“Go to her and tell her that she needs to bring security personnel to this place.” Dmitry felt certain that, as the liaison for the dig site, Layla Teneen would have access to the Afghanistan National Police and Afghanistan National Army. Perhaps she would even have someone in the International Security Assistance Force.
“What should I tell her?”
“That she should hurry. Now, go. I am growing a beard waiting on you.”
Chizkov sped away across the incline, almost tripping in his haste.
Pistol in hand, Dmitry squared himself and walked toward the cave. There would be numerous questions about his presence there if he was right, but there would be only dead men in that cave come morning if he took no action. He went forward.
***
“Hold the paper across the tips of the mold.” Lourds straightened his own end and placed it under his backpack, anchoring the paper to the ground.
On the other side of the mold, Boris stretched the paper to the end of the mold and waited. He looked expectantly at Lourds. “Am I to be given no explanation?”
Lourds grinned, enjoying the situation. “It’s magic. If I’m right, you’ll be amazed.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“I’ll be twice as embarrassed as Geraldo Rivera was when he opened Al Capone’s safe on live television.”
Boris grinned. “A good archeologist should be like a good magician.”
“How is that?”
“Before he performs for an audience, he should always know how the trick turns out.”
Lourds reached into his backpack and took out a stick of charcoal. “Hold that end taut.”
“I will.”
“It’s important that there is no play in the paper.”
Slowly, carefully, Lourds dragged a stick of art charcoal across the paper. The tips of the plaster where the charcoal touched was a dark gray, distinctly opposed to the light gray film that covered the rest of the paper.
Diligently, Lourds stayed with the task until he finished it. Once he had, the paper was covered in symbols that looked a lot like the cuneiform engraving on the wall. He put the charcoal away and picked up his flashlight. He traced the beam across the writing.
After a moment, he shook his head.
“I can’t read this.”
“You thought you would be able to?”
“Yes. There should have been a message here.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because of the carvings. Come here.” Impatiently, head still spinning, Lourds walked back over to the wall. He shined the flashlight beam into the engraving. “See? Do you see?”
Boris peered into the holes. “What am I supposed to see?”
“The tool markings on the edges of the excavations deeper into the writing.”
Dutifully, Boris looked again. “I see what appears to be tool markings.”
“It is. Trust me.”
“I trusted you enough to follow you up here. And I held the paper as you directed. Only to have you tell me that you cannot read what you thought you would be able to read.”
Lourds frowned and reconsidered. There was something he was missing, but it continued to elude him, flitting just beyond his mental reach. “It suddenly came to me that the only reason there would be so many markings was if the deeper excavations in that writing were to leave a second message.”
Boris looked back at the paper then