opened before us. The clean water moved quickly over smooth flat stones. Not very deep, but that was okay. After all, I wanted to hide our tracks in the water, not drown the vehicle. I drove the Rover into the stream.
Chapter Thirteen
I drove steadily but cautiously down the center of the stream. Ararat rose slowly before us like a Japanese monster emerging from the depths of the ocean. Faye drank from her bottle, perhaps influenced by the noisy water sounds the tires made. The water reminded me of another bodily function, but I felt it best that we press forward and not stop. As we worked our way upstream, there were no other signs of military patrol.
“Camilla mentioned we may come across thieves or terrorists,” said Faye, keeping her voice even, although I detected a slight undercurrent of concern.
I turned the wheel sharply, avoiding a dark pool I suspected was deeper water. “To insure that Omar Ali and his men would be safe, the Turkish military swept the mountain clean of all Kurdish guerrilla activity, which in turn rid the mountain of thieves and terrorists, as well.”
A dry, hot wind rippled the water; the ripples, in turn, glimmered in the sun like golden coins. The wind poured through the many shattered windows in the Rover, courtesy of the Turkish military.
Always my eyes scanned the surrounding shrubbery, alert for military patrols. And just before noon, as the Rover plunged through slightly deeper water, Faye said, “Thank you, Sam.”
“For what?”
“Giving me the opportunity to look for my father.”
“And opportunity is all it may be,” I said. “He’s been missing for a long time.”
“You would fail miserably at writing greeting cards.”
Minutes later, I stopped the Rover. About a hundred yards upstream, the mud banks merged into steep granite cliffs, and the stream grew in size into something more than a stream. I only hoped that I had put enough distance between us and the Turks.
I turned out of the stream and spent the next five minutes fighting the loose mud. Two feet forward, one back. White steam issued from the engine. The Rover was losing water. The coolant system was probably shot-up.
Once on dry land, we moved quickly through reeds and grasses and the occasional mean-looking thorny bush that might have been cultivated in Hell’s half acre. The shrubs gave way to larger boulders, and soon we were driving up through a massive limestone canyon, carved by eons of flood waters and glacial melt. A pair of Egyptian vultures rose and fell with the turbulent updrafts created within the canyon. Waiting for something to die. Or for some privacy.
When the canyon became too steep and dangerous, I parked the vehicle deep within the shadows of the canyon wall between two huge boulders. A hell of a parallel parking job, I might add. I threw a canvas cover over the vehicle. The Rover now looked remarkably boulder-like. It should escape detection at first or even second glance.
“What about the alarm?” Faye asked, shielding her eyes like a saluting soldier from the glare of the noon sun. There was something akin to a smirk on her face, but with Faye it was hard to be sure.
“A shepherd boy wouldn’t know what to do with the Rover,” I said, scanning the horizon with the field glasses. The land was a living green and bronze blanket. I stood within the shadows to eliminate the possibility of a telltale gleam from the lens of the binoculars.
I spotted a quick-moving jackal, its sand-colored coat wet with dew. Nose to the ground. Tracking rabbits or pheasants. Or even young ibex or chamois. There was no other movement. The land was empty and majestic, harsh and wild. Just the way I liked it. I exhaled. My breath fogged before me.
“I think we’re safe,” I said, letting the heavy field glasses hang from the strap around my neck. We stood shoulder to shoulder, her shoulder just below my shoulder. Faye’s eyes were slits against the morning sun.
Perhaps a mile away something
Chapter Thirteen
I drove steadily but cautiously down the center of the stream. Ararat rose slowly before us like a Japanese monster emerging from the depths of the ocean. Faye drank from her bottle, perhaps influenced by the noisy water sounds the tires made. The water reminded me of another bodily function, but I felt it best that we press forward and not stop. As we worked our way upstream, there were no other signs of military patrol.
“Camilla mentioned we may come across thieves or terrorists,” said Faye, keeping her voice even, although I detected a slight undercurrent of concern.
I turned the wheel sharply, avoiding a dark pool I suspected was deeper water. “To insure that Omar Ali and his men would be safe, the Turkish military swept the mountain clean of all Kurdish guerrilla activity, which in turn rid the mountain of thieves and terrorists, as well.”
A dry, hot wind rippled the water; the ripples, in turn, glimmered in the sun like golden coins. The wind poured through the many shattered windows in the Rover, courtesy of the Turkish military.
Always my eyes scanned the surrounding shrubbery, alert for military patrols. And just before noon, as the Rover plunged through slightly deeper water, Faye said, “Thank you, Sam.”
“For what?”
“Giving me the opportunity to look for my father.”
“And opportunity is all it may be,” I said. “He’s been missing for a long time.”
“You would fail miserably at writing greeting cards.”
Minutes later, I stopped the Rover. About a hundred yards upstream, the mud banks merged into steep granite cliffs, and the stream grew in size into something more than a stream. I only hoped that I had put enough distance between us and the Turks.
I turned out of the stream and spent the next five minutes fighting the loose mud. Two feet forward, one back. White steam issued from the engine. The Rover was losing water. The coolant system was probably shot-up.
Once on dry land, we moved quickly through reeds and grasses and the occasional mean-looking thorny bush that might have been cultivated in Hell’s half acre. The shrubs gave way to larger boulders, and soon we were driving up through a massive limestone canyon, carved by eons of flood waters and glacial melt. A pair of Egyptian vultures rose and fell with the turbulent updrafts created within the canyon. Waiting for something to die. Or for some privacy.
When the canyon became too steep and dangerous, I parked the vehicle deep within the shadows of the canyon wall between two huge boulders. A hell of a parallel parking job, I might add. I threw a canvas cover over the vehicle. The Rover now looked remarkably boulder-like. It should escape detection at first or even second glance.
“What about the alarm?” Faye asked, shielding her eyes like a saluting soldier from the glare of the noon sun. There was something akin to a smirk on her face, but with Faye it was hard to be sure.
“A shepherd boy wouldn’t know what to do with the Rover,” I said, scanning the horizon with the field glasses. The land was a living green and bronze blanket. I stood within the shadows to eliminate the possibility of a telltale gleam from the lens of the binoculars.
I spotted a quick-moving jackal, its sand-colored coat wet with dew. Nose to the ground. Tracking rabbits or pheasants. Or even young ibex or chamois. There was no other movement. The land was empty and majestic, harsh and wild. Just the way I liked it. I exhaled. My breath fogged before me.
“I think we’re safe,” I said, letting the heavy field glasses hang from the strap around my neck. We stood shoulder to shoulder, her shoulder just below my shoulder. Faye’s eyes were slits against the morning sun.
Perhaps a mile away something
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