Authors: Mariah Stewart
Last Words (26 page)
April 2007
Northwestern Iran
In the bottom of the earthen pit, a hand of bone lay across a forearm, and boney fingers rested on what had once been the cheek of a beloved. The two skulls lay side by side, their foreheads touching, eyeless sockets gazing eternally into eyeless sockets. From above, faces stared down at the unique find, most definitely unexpected in this part of the world. Here one was more likely to discover swords and knives, perhaps the bronze or silver sidepiece of a horse’s bridle. In some graves, a beloved horse had been buried with its rider. But lovers buried together, still locked in an embrace,
that
was a find.
“Have you ever seen anything like this, Dr. McGowan?” Sayyed Kasraian, the excavation director on the dig high in Iran’s Zagros Mountains, crouched at the side of the opening.
“Never.” Daria McGowan carefully knelt beside the top of the pit, shining a flashlight on the skeletal remains three feet below. “Not just the positioning of the two figures, but the artifacts that were buried with them…it takes my breath away.”
She moved the light as a pointer.
“Look there, the one is wearing some type of diadem, from here it looks like gold and lapis, see how blue? And the breastplates, also gold…rings on the fingers of all four hands, so we’re looking at the remains of some very prominent lovers.” She looked up at the Kurdish laborers who’d accompanied them, and said, “Gentleman, we may even be in the presence of royalty.”
Two of the men smiled, the third shifted uneasily and looked away, afraid, no doubt, of attracting the notice of any spirits that might still be lurking within the grave.
“And over here, see, glass bottles, dozens of them. They must have held water or wine or some type of oil that the dead would have wanted to take with them on their journey into the next world. And there, at the feet, see the bones?” She hopped into the pit, careful to land on the excavated area around the remains. “These appear to be canine.”
She directed the light onto the skull, and her companion studied it from above for several minutes.
“It does look like a dog, doesn’t it?” He smiled. “Well, that would be something new. I haven’t seen that before. Not in this area, at any rate.”
She knelt as carefully as she could to more closely examine the human remains.
“These two must have had a long and happy life together,” she murmured. “The teeth are quite worn. They were elderly—for their time—when they died. Definitely a man and a woman, judging from the pelvic bones.” She glanced up at the man whose face loomed above hers. “We’re so accustomed to finding the bones of battle-scarred warriors, that when something like this is uncovered, well, it just melts your heart, wouldn’t you say?”
The sound of a car engine drew her attention to the road behind the dig, and as she climbed out of the grave the vehicle pulled up and stopped.
She brushed off her hands on her pants and called to the man who had just arrived by Jeep.
“Dr. Parishan, come look! See what was found while you were back in Tehran at the museum having tea with your friends!” She teased the older man, a long-time friend of her father’s.
“I heard there was a find and got here as soon as I could. Daria, thank you for coming.” Under other circumstances the elderly man, the project director, would have offered a more gracious greeting to the American, whom he had personally requested join them on the dig, but he was eager to examine the contents of the grave. He reached the edge and stared down. “Oh, look at them…look at them…” he murmured reverentially. “Perfect…they are perfect…
“So, Dr. McGowan, what is your feeling?” An obviously pleased Korush Parishan stood and brushed the sand from his knees. “On the site, overall?”
“I concur completely with Dr. Karaian’s assessment,” Daria said without hesitation. “The artifacts he’s already unearthed show such a vast mix of cultures, I can’t imagine that these people were anything but nomadic. We’ve seen the Indian river goddesses on the vases, golden goblets in the style of Bactria. The pottery bowls with the horned dragon, the god Marduk—definitely Babylonian. So here we have clear influences from India, Afghanistan, Mesopotamia. They all came together here in the mountains.” She pointed off to the east, then drew a line across the horizon with her index finger. “The Silk Road passed through this region. You’d have had travelers from China, India, Anatolia, Greece. Their cultures all intermingled through the centuries, which would account for the fact that some of the artifacts are of a different age from the others.”
She turned to the others and smiled. “This could be an amazing find. The rise off to your left looks as if it might be a likely spot to start. I cannot wait to see what else you might discover here.”
“Unfortunately, Dr. McGowan, you may have to postpone your participation.” The older man stood. “As I was leaving the museum, I was handed an urgent fax to deliver to you, and a phone message from a Dr. Burnette. Forgive me, but I could not help but note that the message says it is imperative that you contact her as soon as possible.”
He removed a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to her.
Frowning, she opened it and began to read.
“Dr. Burnette is the president of Howe University back in the States.” Daria continued to read, then looked up and asked, “Dr. Kasraian, may I use your computer?”
“Of course. It’s on the table in the main tent. Please, whatever you need….” He gestured toward the area where the shelters had been erected.
“Thank you.”
Daria went directly to the tent, her mind on the fax and its request that she return to the States immediately. Having to leave soon was not what she’d had in mind when she arrived late last week. That the Iranians had invited a well-regarded foreign authority—and a woman, at that—to this newly discovered site was evidence of their desire to participate in the international archaeological society. It was of particular importance to Dr. Parishan that the rest of the world understood how seriously the Iranian archaeological community was taking its obligation to not only protect but to share and showcase their distinct cultural heritage. Like those of its neighbors Afghanistan and Iraq, Iran’s cultural treasures had been finding their way out of the country for years, legally and illegally, and they were determined to not only locate but safeguard whatever remained, and do whatever was necessary to recover those items that had, over the years, been lost due to an active black market in stolen antiquities.
Dr. Parishan had handpicked the team to work on this new find. He’d been unable to secure the services of Daria McGowan, a well-known expert in Middle Eastern archaeology, to participate in the initial excavation, but had been pleased that she offered to come as a consultant as soon as her work in the Gobi Desert had been completed. To Parishan, that she was internationally recognized was the cake; that she was the daughter of Samuel McGowan, an old and esteemed friend and colleague, was the icing.
Daria returned to the others an hour later.
“I’m so terribly sorry,” she explained, “but I’m going to have to leave right away. Dr. Kasraian, could I impose upon you for a car?”
“No imposition at all,” he assured her. “I’ll have a driver take you wherever you need to go. But your family…there is bad news?”
“No, no. Nothing like that.” She dropped her duffel bag on the ground and slid a hijab around her shoulders. Once they neared the airport, she would use the scarf to cover her head to conform to Iranian law.
“Dr. Parishan, I feel awful about this.”
“As long as everyone is well. When I heard ‘doctor,’ I feared perhaps…”
She smiled to reassure him. “Dr. Burnette apparently has been trying to track me down for several weeks. Dr. Parishan, did my father ever speak to you of his grandfather who was also an archaeologist?”
“Alistair McGowan, of course.” He nodded. “Everyone knows of the man who found the city of Shandihar when no one believed it had ever existed. Your father told me his grandfather’s journal inspired him to follow in his footsteps to become the great archaeologist that he is.”
“Then perhaps he also mentioned that the backing for Alistair’s expeditions had come from a university?”
“Yes, I believe so. Your father has lectured there, correct?”
“Yes, Dad lectured often at Howe University before he retired. When my great-grandfather returned to the States following his discovery at Shandihar, he went directly to Howe and brought all the artifacts he’d found with him. The university had supplied the funding, so the spoils belonged to them. At least, that’s how it worked at the turn of the century. He spent years cataloging the artifacts to display in the museum that Howe was building. Unfortunately, he died before the construction was completed.”
“Yes, yes, this I have heard.” Parishan nodded. “But what does this have to do with you?”
“Apparently the university wants to do something to commemorate the hundredth anniversary of Alistair’s discovery. They want to put his findings on display, after all these years. Dr. Burnette has asked me to take charge of the entire project.”
Parishan’s eyes lit up.
“You would be designing the exhibits?”
“Everything, Dr. Parishan.” She smiled with dazed pleasure. “They want me to do everything.”
He stepped into the dark.
“Honey, I’m home,” the man singsonged as his hands reached up for the flashlight he’d left on a hook on the right side of the wall. “Did you miss me?”
He stepped into the room and paused to light the candles on the makeshift dresser that stood along one wall. “I missed you all day, sweetheart. I couldn’t think about anything or anyone except you.” He knelt down next to the bed. “About being here with you, just like this.”
She struggled against the restraints, her eyes wide with fear, her cries muffled by the gag that protruded from her mouth. The sounds she made were choked, incoherent.
He chuckled and pulled the gag from her mouth.
“Now, sweetheart, you know that—”
She spat in his face.
At first he froze, then he laughed. “Well, well, we still have a little fight in us, do we? Baby, you ought to know there’s nothing that turns me on more than a little bit of fight.”
Also by Mariah Stewart
LAST LOOK
FINAL TRUTH
DARK TRUTH
HARD TRUTH
COLD TRUTH
DEAD END
DEAD EVEN
DEAD CERTAIN
DEAD WRONG
UNTIL DARK
THE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER
Last Words
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
2007 Ballantine Books Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2007 by Marti Robb
Excerpt from
Last Breath
copyright © 2007 by Marti Robb
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
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ALLANTINE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming hardcover edition of
Last Breath
by Mariah Stewart. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eISBN: 978-0-345-50018-2
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