GARZA ROSE ABRUPTLY at Gideon’s shout and looked around wildly. “What the hell?”
“We’ve been robbed.”
Garza exploded. “It’s Imogen,” he said. “I knew something was wrong with her from the start. The way she arrived so conveniently. The way she bid up the price of the camels. The way she insinuated herself into our expedition.”
Gideon didn’t answer, but he had to admit to himself that Garza was probably right. “They took all the water,” he said.
“Sons of bitches.”
As Gideon looked around at the landscape of sand and rock stretching to the horizon, the gravity of their situation began to sink in.
“This was carefully planned,” Garza said. “They must have conspired to dump us in the worst possible place: eighty miles from Shalateen, thirty miles from the mist oasis. They left us where they were sure we’d die. And they took our water.”
Gideon shook his head. “It seems like a lot of work just to steal our money and a few hundred dollars’ worth of stuff.”
He felt sudden heat on his face as the sun peeked over the eastern foothills, casting long shadows.
“We’d better get the hell out of here,” Garza said.
“We can’t travel without water. We should dig out the well.”
“Water could be twenty feet down, if it’s there at all.”
Gideon looked at Garza, saw incipient panic in his eyes. “The only sure water is eighty miles back. We’d never get there alive. Our only option is to dig—unless you’ve got a better idea?”
Garza shook his head.
Gideon walked over to the stand of tamarisks beside the old stone well. A circular wall encased the well, and a stone staircase had been built in the side, spiraling downward. The sand had drifted into the well to within about five feet of the top.
“We need to rig some kind of system,” said Garza, coming up beside him. “We can make buckets from that rug.”
It took them half an hour to cut up the thin rug and fashion two buckets from it, stitching the pieces into containers. They tore their headcloths into strips and braided them to make ropes. Even as they worked, the sun was rising and the heat building.
“I’ll fill the bucket with sand,” Gideon said. “You haul and dump.”
He climbed down the short staircase and began scooping sand into the bucket with his hands. When it was full Garza dragged it up and dumped it, while Gideon filled up the second bucket; and while Garza hauled that up, he filled the first bucket again.
The sand was loose and dry, and it refilled the hole even as Gideon scooped it out. He soon realized he couldn’t just dig a hole in the sand—they would have to clear out the entire well, wall-to-wall. It was backbreaking work, and as the heat of the day mounted it became almost intolerable. Gideon’s thirst grew rapidly.
By noon, they had brought the level of sand down only four feet, with no sign of moisture. They were both nearly dead from exhaustion, heat, and thirst. They switched jobs several times, and their hands were now raw from scooping the hot sand.
“We can’t keep this up,” said Gideon. “We need to knock off for a while.”
Garza agreed silently, dumping the last bucket while Gideon dragged himself up the staircase a little dizzily. He felt close to hyperthermia. The well had been like an oven, the air dead and unmoving and full of dust. Silently they shuffled over to a large tamarisk and flopped down in the shade.
Gideon looked at his partner. He was like a zombie, his face mottled with dust and sand that had caked onto his perspiration. His eyes were bloodshot. Gideon figured he probably looked as bad himself.
As he sat with his back against the tree, he closed his eyes and tried to clear his head. His lips were cracked and his tongue was a hunk of dry plaster in his mouth. It was frightening how quickly they had become dehydrated. His thirst was all-consuming. He could hardly think of anything else.
“What now?” Garza managed to say.
“We wait for dusk and resume digging.”
In silent response Garza held up his hands, which were swollen, the skin cracking. Gideon glanced down and saw his own hands were in a similar state.
“Maybe we should make a dash for the mist oasis,” Garza said. “There must be water there.”
“Thirty miles in these mountains? That would kill us for sure.”
The sun was directly overhead now and the temperature in the shade was at least a hundred and twenty degrees. No matter what they did, Gideon thought, they were probably going to die.
It would be wonderful to go to sleep, to lose consciousness, but the raging thirst made that impossible. It was obvious they weren’t going to find water in the well; nor could they go forward to the mist oasis or back to Shalateen. There were no other options.
He roused himself, looking eastward down the broad wadi. The black hills on either side widened to reveal a horizon of pale sand. It was the time of day when mirages began, and he saw one materialize now: a lush oasis, a sheet of sparkling water, and rising from it something that looked like a city of minarets. He could hardly believe that, after all he’d been through—after brooding about the death sentence hanging over him for nearly a year—he’d be leaving the world in such a totally unexpected and pointless way.
The sun passed the meridian and continued on. Soon he would have to move to stay in the shade, but when the sun crept around he felt it wasn’t worth bothering. Something was going wrong with his head; it was as if he was becoming detached from reality and drifting into another world. So this is how it ends. He watched the play of mirages on the distant horizon. It was something to do, he thought: the television of the desert. The mirage of the city changed into a row of palm trees, swaying in unison and catching fire, the flames flickering back and forth. As the sun continued to move, stranger mirages came and went: cities, sheets of water, a great ship, mountains rising and falling, a caravan moving like a row of ants across the sands.
The idea of waiting until dark to resume work was now a joke, as it became clear that by the time the sun had set and the cool night returned, neither one of them would be able to function. I’m dying a month and a half ahead of schedule, he thought with bitter irony, in this godforsaken place. But now that death had in fact arrived, a month and a half seemed like a long time indeed, and he fervently wished he could have it back.
His thoughts became feverish and unbearable. He was not going to put up with it any more. He glanced over at Garza, who seemed lost in his own hellish world.
“Manuel?”
Garza slowly turned in his direction.
“Your knife.”
“Why?” Garza stared at him for a moment, then Gideon saw understanding in his eyes. The man reached into his galabeya and slid out the fixed-blade he carried on his belt, offering it to Gideon.
“I’ll use it after,” he said.
Gideon took the knife and tested the blade—razor-sharp, as he knew any knife of Garza’s would be. He took the point of it and pressed it slightly into his left wrist, knowing the cut should be longitudinal. He would just go to sleep—simple as that.
“Sorry about everything,” Gideon said.
Garza shook his head. “Me too. No hard feelings.”
A tiny drop of blood welled up around the knife tip. Gideon raised his eyes to look at the horizon one last time, and once again the mirages flickered about; yet another caravan distorted and dancing in the heat waves. The realism of the mirage enraged him. He was about to plunge the knife into his flesh when he felt Garza’s arm grasp his.
“Wait.”
“For what?”
Garza nodded at the horizon. “That one’s real.”
Gideon stared. He blinked, blinked again. The mirage did look real—but then, they all did. They eventually dissipated…but this one was getting clearer; as he gazed it solidified into a woman, riding a camel and leading three others, two with packs.
It wasn’t just any woman—it was Imogen. This wasn’t a mirage; it was a hallucination brought on by heatstroke and thirst. But it loomed ever closer, and finally, when he could hear the wheezing and grumbling of the camels and the crunch of their footfalls on the gravelly surface of the wadi, he accepted that it was real.
Gently, Garza removed the knife from his hand and slipped it back into its sheath. Imogen led the camels into camp, dismounted, and walked up to them carrying a canvas water bag. She leaned down and offered it to Gideon.
He seized it with a muffled cry, sucking and gulping down the warm water.
“Easy,” she said, working it out of his grasp and giving it to Garza.
They both drank in turns before she cut them off. Gideon shut his eyes tightly, counted to ten, opened them again. Imogen was still there. “How did you—?”
She interrupted sharply. “I’m going to unpack and couch these camels. Then I’ll join you and we can talk.”
Gideon watched as Imogen expertly unsaddled her camel, unpacked the others, couched them in the shade of the tamarisks, and came back over with the water bag. It still seemed unreal.
She let them drink again. When they were done, Gideon found her looking at him with a degree of amusement and satisfaction on her face.
“I know,” she said. “You’ve got a lot of questions. So save your breath while I explain. I sensed that crooked camel driver was planning to do this all along. He was never going to bring his camels into the Gebel territory—he’d lose them all, and probably his life as well.” She opened up her haversack, and inside Gideon could see wads of Egyptian pounds. “Here’s the money we paid him. I got it back along with the four camels, the supplies, and most of the water. I had to leave him two camels and some water so he wouldn’t die on his way back to Shalateen, poor sod.”
“But how did you do it? I mean, relieve the man of his camels, money, and supplies?”
“It’s a long story, better left for later. A night around the fire, perhaps.”
“I watched you handle those camels,” said Garza. “You’re no newbie. And you speak fluent Arabic. Guess it’s not only Mekky who’s been lying.”
She nodded. “I’m afraid that’s true.”
“So what’s your game?”
“Your gratitude for my saving your life is overwhelming.”
“I don’t like being lied to,” Garza replied.
“Reasonable enough,” said Imogen. “Right. I’m not really a geologist. Although for a layman, I suppose that term is close enough. Technically, I’m a geoarchaeologist.”
“What’s that?”
“An archaeologist who specializes in geology and geography. In my case, I study ancient mining. I’m looking for the gold mines of the Middle Kingdom. The source of the vast gold resources of the pharaohs has never been found. I’m going to find it.”
“So why lie to us?” said Garza.
“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “I’d been knocking about Shalateen trying to figure out how to get into these mountains without attracting attention when you two bumbling Yanks showed up. I realized you’d make perfect cover for my search.”
“Gold mines?” asked Gideon. “You looking to get rich?”
She laughed. “I’m a scholar. That wasn’t a lie. I want to make a name for myself by solving one of the great mysteries of the ancient world. If I solve this one, I’ll have my choice of tenure-track positions. Oxford is lovely—ever been there?”
“No,” said Gideon.
“How do you know the mine’s out here in the Proscribed Area?” asked Garza.
“Many reasons. Ancient records, satellite imagery, geology. I’m pretty sure I’ve pinpointed it.”
“So where is it, then?”
“Let us just say it’s a two-day ride past Gebel Umm—where you’re going. I’ll drop you off with supplies and two camels, go on to my site, and then pick you up on my return—just as we’d originally planned.” She paused. “Any more questions?”
Garza said nothing. The sun was dropping low on the horizon, casting a golden light across the sands.
She gave him a penetrating look. “I’m not the only liar here.”
“What do you mean?” Garza asked.
“You haven’t fooled me for a moment,” She flashed him a cynical smile. “Photographer, my arse. There’s no film in that camera of yours.”
“I haven’t needed to take any photos yet.”
“Good try. But after retrieving the supplies, I searched them and found no film anywhere. Besides, what photographer these days isn’t working in digital?”
There was a silence.
“Well?”
Gideon was about to speak when Garza stopped him with a gesture. “No.”
“No?” She raised her eyebrows.
“While it’s true we’re not working for Nat Geo, we’re not going to tell you what we’re doing.”
She shook her head. “Here I’ve saved your hides. And I leveled with you.”
“Sorry, but that’s the way it has to be.” Garza said with finality.
Imogen gave him a long, cool stare. Then she said, “Care to mount up? We’ve still got a long way to go. And I hate to break the news to you, but in that little contretemps with our camel driver we lost a third of our remaining water—maybe more.”