Two hundred, perhaps three hundred thousand Mandingo Africans lined the streets of Niani to send off the beloved King of Mali, Mansa Musa on his Hajj to the Mekka. Sixty thousand would make the pilgrimage which unsurpassed anything that would come before or after. Eleven thousand warriors and chieftains would defend the assemblage of artisans, accountants, designers, bankers, philosophers, poets and entertainers, doctors, teachers, and virtually everyone from all walks of life. The royal leader rode on horseback and was anteceded by five-hundred of his men, each carrying golden staffs. A personal entourage of nearly twelve thousand slaves and servants dressed in African red and yellow brocade and exotic Persian silks. One hundred camels would each carry three hundred pounds of glimmering gold mined from the West African mines, the largest in the world.

It would be a spectacular show of wealth meant to bedazzle the Sheiks and Sultans of Cairo and Medina. The Moslem World had no comprehension that the greatest empire the world had ever known was about to emerge in unimagined pageantry. It would soon mesmerize them, inspire and awaken.

The Western World had heard solely the legends and only the bravest souls ever ventured into the primitive wilderness and rarely returned as the journey led across some of the most treacherous landscape on the planet.

It was months in the making and now the largest caravan in the history of the world began the trek across North Africa beginning in Niani on the Upper Niger River then onto the legendary Timbuktu and following the treacherous Walata trade route controlled exclusively by the Mali Empire. From there it would head Northwest passing the KabaKanaba and Sankarani Rivers up to the Mediterranean Sea and then continue East and eventually across the Red Sea then finally south to the holy Mekka. It was an excursion that would last two years from beginning to end and change the course of African history. .

Moussa tugged the hemp rope that seemed to reach illimitably into the sky. “This is the last of it Wali!” he cried to his friend some hundred meters or so above. The jewel encrusted chest

swung upward lifted from the blackened sands of the desert floor and slowly inched closer to the apex of the towering white granite massif. He estimated that it would be an hour or so before Wali would secure the precious chest with the others and then shimmy down the rope to join him on the desert plain.

Off to the north stretched the unnamed black sands as far as the eye could see. To the south two towering granite prominences jutted from the rippling sands and from there nothing more than empty plains stretched endlessly to the horizon like a vast ominous blackened sea. Billowing hills stretched on the eastside of the massif and was partly the reason for stashing the gold here for Mansa Musa the beloved Emperor of the Mandingo. The trade route from which they had purposely strayed lay to the west was little more than a path that had been traversed by caravans for as long as anyone could remember, a meandering torturous road that led to the Mediterranean.

The camel stood patiently near, lame and unable to carry the three hundred pound load any further. With luck the camel might make it to the nearest village where they could purchase another and then join up with the entourage of the Mandingo hajj.

Wali slide down the rope and landed beside Moussa who was busily engaged in drawing a map of the landscape. Moussa asked, “Where exactly did you place the four chests?” Moussa looked up at his naļve younger friend wearing a charcoal cloth around his neck and a white imma around his forehead. The handsome Mandingo possessed finely cut features and a tall muscular frame, perfect for climbing the vertical cliffs adeptly like a mountain goat.

The pair had become separated from the entourage several days previous when a unexpected Khamsin had struck the caravan. “What in the world?” wondered Moussa aloud when the sudden winds came unexpectedly upon him. He pulled up his scarf and looked for cover while holding onto the camel leash. That was the last he remembered anything of the storm.

“Ah Moussa,” whishpered Wali, his trusted companion. “It is good that you are back among the living.”

“You were struck from behind on the head by a flying pot,” said Wali as he popped a green gum into his mouth and began chewing side to side, much like a camel. “The caravan has moved on and we will catch up to them now that you are recovering.”

“How long have I been lying here?” wondered Moussa while he searched the back of his head and found a goose egg. He fell back apparently dizzy.” I have a headache, oh.” He grimaced and fell back to the sand.

Wali handed him some tea and helped him sit up. “Drink this and when your headache is gone, we will go. The doctor said it was of a mere bump on the head and you would need an hour or so after waking up. The tea has a pain powder in it.”

Moussa could see the languorous camel standing patiently to the side while a pair of Congo Warblers walked up and down his hump searching for fleas. “I see that Lotfi made it through the Khamsin.”

“The storm came and went in minutes and was of little consequence. You were the only one hurt by it. One of the cooks had been careless in packing one of the camels and the pots blew all over the desert. No one gave it any thought.”

Later the pair came upon a fork in the road. One led straight ahead and the other branched off to the left. “There is no sign of which road was taken by the caravan,” said Wali still chewing on the green gum his tongue and lips now green. “The road to the left does not look like the main road to me.”

“There is no reason to think of going left,” said Moussa as he scratched the lump on the back of his head. “It is not the primary road. We will follow the main road and move quickly.”

“Phew, Lofti has his own speed,” said Wali while he fed a carrot to the sluggish critter.

“Yes, you are correct,” said the nappy haired Moussa who was the oldest of the pair and made all the important decisions. “Nothing will hurry him for long with the heavy load.” He pulled a bag of dates from a leather bag hanging on the unstirred camel and popped one into his mouth and held out the bag to his companion. Wali shook his head and indicted he had the gum in his mouth. Both agreed to continue the journey on what appeared to be the main road.

Two days later the pair stood looking at the vast Sahara on the path that had veered to the right heading south. “We took the wrong turn at the fork,” observed Moussa. “We must go back.”

“Lofti has been limping for the last ten miles,” observed Wali as he stretched the gum from his teeth and sucked it back into his mouth like spaghetti. “He will not be able to carry the load. We are in big trouble. If highway robbers approach us we have no way to protect ourselves or the gold coins. We would be disgraced if we allowed this to happen.”

“If we lost the chests to highway men we would be lucky to be disgraced,” said Moussa as he gazed at smoke rising from a palm grove to the south. “I can see us begging for mercy before they lop off our heads like a lowly slave.” He pulled the leg of the camel up and examined the bloody hoof. “We must find a safe place to unload the chests. It is our only chance of coming out of this without disgrace.”

Wali pointed to the west. “There are three massifs. We could find a good spot there and perhaps you could draw a map for Mansa Musa who could send others to retrieve it on the return trip. It is well off the path.”

“Let’s face it, we are lost and don’t know where the hell we are,” Mansa pulled kola nuts from a paper bag in his pocket and offered one to Wali. “God, we are so stupid to let this happen.”

Wali dropped a nut into his mouth, “We can make it to the first massif. It is surrounded by strange blackened sand. It will be easy to find this place.”

That afternoon the chests were secured at the top of the massif and Maussa sat with Wali at the base drawing the map. Moussa pointed to the parchment that lay on a flat granite boulder. “I have told our unfortunate circumstance in the narrative and have only to complete the final location.”

Wali looked it over and said, “Yes we must get the shape of the massif exactly right. As far as I can tell from climbing up the south end it probably looked like this.” He drew the shape in the sand with a stick. “I noticed a cave on the other side that matched the one where I placed the chests.”

“Hmm, the two openings are no doubt part of the same cave. One could imagine that they were eyes of some animal I suppose.”

“Then the entire massif widens like this and the other side is a mirror copy of it.” He completed the shape.

Both stared at the crude sand drawing and exclaimed in unison. “Holy Allah—it is the head of an elephant!”

“We have placed the chests into the eye of the elephant!” Wali pointed to the massifs off to the south. “Those could be imagined to be teardrops.”

Moussa muttered, “A Crying Elephant. We will call this the Valley of the Crying Elephant.” Moussa dipped the feather into the ink and carefully finished the drawing.

Wali said, “Your drawing is very beautiful. I know of few that could have done as well.”

“It must be suitable for an emperor’s eyes.” Moussa rolled up the parchment and stuck it into the leather satchel hanging from the camel. “I feel that we will be with Mansa Musa soon and Lofti will live to an old age and have many little camels that look up to him.”

The pair led the camel from the Valley of the Crying Elephant heading northward toward the Mediterranean.

“Damned hot—again,” muttered Professor Thomas Crocket. He inhaled the desert wind and savored it as though it were his last. There is a stench of death in the air today, he thought. Buzzards circled overhead with more than casual interest; he wasn’t dead yet.

The archeologist, a man of rugged countenance, sat alone under a ragged sun umbrella perched like the lost Dutchman in a sea of parched sand that stretched endlessly to the horizon.

The air was oppressive with heat and the bleached sky offered no relief from the fiery sun. A palm grove off to the west shimmered lazily in the oasis like a devil dancing in the fires of hell—appearing, then disappearing in waves of unholy heat. In front sat the incurious mud-brick ruins of Bacchais; a third rate tourist attraction for which no one gave a damn.

The lean forty-two year old, craggy and dusty, watched listlessly from his turquoise lounge chair peering through his Polaroid’s while his two dig laborers shoveled sand into a rusty wheelbarrow alongside the dusty ruins that drew in five or maybe six visitors a day. Most often the knobby kneed tourists wandered around for five minutes wondering why this pathetic site had been placed on the map, returned to their air-conditioned vehicles and moved on.

“Screw the heat,” he mumbled as he reached for the cooler and brought out a Coke, popped the metal tab and lifted it to his parched lips. The buzzards circled lower now; it would not be long until they fed upon an unfortunate cobra.

Hogarth and Hunt had unearthed some papyri a hundred years ago and on occasion a piece of pottery or stash of ancient coins turned up—not much when compared to the Sphinx and the Pyramids of Giza that had given up all their secrets years ago. This site was a hodge-podge of mud and stone that dated back to 300 BC and a village of around three-thousand abandoned it around 400 AD.

There was not much point in going for the grand prize anymore as all the significant money dried up and now most archeologists carved out some small niche that would be just enough to survive from day to day. His job was to upgrade the site to make it presentable for tourists who had an extra day on the itinerary and had already viewed all the publicized attractions. It would take forever he imagined. If he actually ran across anything of value that would be a bonus however he had no hope of finding anything.

“Sonuvabitching flies!” he exclaimed as he swatted insects that buzzed like miniscule F-16’s around his head. “Crap!” he cried in exasperation while sweat poured from his body leaving reams of perspiration stains on his shirt. He gazed into the eerily silent sifting dunes of the Sahara that stretched like frozen waves across the desolate Egyptian landscape; then dozed off for a minute and grunted like a sleepy lion that had been prodded by a stick when he awoke with a start.

A buzzard had settled at his feet and eyed him curiously. “Git!” He waved it off and watched it as it sailed away and joined the others still circling above.

The thin haired archeologist took Cokes to the men and the three sat in the shade of the mud wall for awhile—chatted and swatted flies before continuing the monotonous work of moving sand from the ruins.

When the light of the day began to give out Crockett called it a day and dropped off his two workers in his cherry red Chevy Trailblazer on his way back to his niggling rented house in Fayoum. He passed the houses that lined the banks of the Bahr Yussef canal, crossed the arched bridge and drove though a street of shops where women dressed in grey cotton shawls began to emerge now that the scorching heat of the afternoon was dissipating. The bazaar was coming to life and merchants hawked fruit and fish—women carried baskets of fresh baked bread on their heads and children juddered along the backs of donkeys.

He saw Amr standing in front of his antiquities shop which was a bit uncommon and Crockett waved a greeting and tooted the horn to his friend as he drove on. Amr made a gesture that indicated he wanted to talk—perhaps had information—and Crockett spun around the block and parked in front of the shop.

“Salaam aleykum Professor Crockett—so glad I caught you,” Amr said in Arabic, his prominent gold tooth displayed with his broad smile and Crockett returned the greeting as he unceremoniously kicked a stray canine aside that hovered too closely around his sandals. “Come inside. I may have something of interest for you today.”

Crockett quickly glanced up and down the street as he locked his Trailblazer with a push of a button on his key chain. Tourists were looking into café windows, several children played with a red ball and many Egyptian men and women wearing white djellabas were scurrying briskly about. Across the street a fortune teller hawked his wares to the annoyed passing tourists and offered free séances in the back of his shop. He placed a sign Out to Lunch on the door and straggled around the corner one foot dragging noticeably. Amr’s window promised Highest Quality, Lowest Prices and his wife Alifa dressed in a decorative hijab could be seen in the shadows ringing up a sale for a customer behind the counter. According to Amr she was a wildcat in the bedroom, presumably something to do with her military background. “She would put a whorehouse Madame to shame!” boasted Amr.

The interior was cleaner and less cluttered than most shops, probably because Alifa made it so as she most often could be seen with a duster in one hand and straightening the piles of parchments and assorted Egyptian artifacts with the other. Sparkling brass lamps hung from chains that that reached to the ceiling and musical stringed instruments adorned the walls. Masks of the pharaohs peered from above and Persian carpets covered the wooden floor. The air was heavy with the scent of hibiscus and jasmine mixed with the strong aroma of fried chicken and rice that pleasantly drifted from behind gold lined curtains at the back of the shop.

Amr ushered Crockett into the back and spread a parchment on the kitchen table. “Someone brought this in today along with the usual stuff,” Amr said. ‘What do you make of it?” He placed decorated gold-edged Florentine teacups on each corner to hold it in place.

Crockett sat in a wooden chair that rocked a bit as one leg was short and looked intently studying the tattered document while he scratched at his black ragged six day beard. He would need to shave it tomorrow he thought. His fingers moved across the upper portion of the browning document. “It is beautiful and could be the centerpiece of the main lobby of the Luxor Hotel however I suspect you think this is more than a wall decoration.”

He studied it for a few minutes running his hands over it as though it were a beautiful woman who had submitted herself to his embrace. “This is native African —probably Tuareg — or one of a half dozen others—I do not read this language. I would need to find someone to interpret this.”

Alifa strolled into the kitchen and rummaged around the refrigerator for cheese and pita and placed it onto a counter. The black hijab she was wearing in the shop was gone and she looked radiant in her blue skirt and white blouse. Her hazelnut eyes sparkled above her spirited smile that always gave joy to Crockett. She said, “It may be a map to a wondrous treasure Professor—a fake? Amr always has such high hopes.” She placed a glass of lemonade in front of each.

“Amr leaned back in his chair and sipped the drink. “One can always pray for the best—perhaps Allah has sent this to us.”

Crockett examined the brownish yellow parchment with a jeweler’s loop that he always carried with him and rubbed the corner with his fingers and said, “It seems genuine enough and looks to be at least several hundred years old—thirteenth or fourteenth century if I were to hazard a guess. I think we can rule out that it could be a fake. If it is, it is a very convincing one.” He paused while he raised the glass of cold lemonade to his lips and took a big gulp.

Crockett looked perplexed and brushed away some of the dirt—then blew across the surface spewing up a puff of fine dust. “The drawing over here shows a map of upper Africa and a dotted line that may indicate…a journey—I recognize Cairo up here.” He followed the line across the parchment with his finger. “It ends in Timbuktu here—my history of Africa is incomplete. I would need to study up a bit.”

Alifa leaned over his shoulder and placed her finger on the parchment. “Timbuktu—ah yes, the legendary city of gold. My grandmother spoke often of it!”

A loud crash of garbage cans was heard from outside in the alley. “What the...” Amr bolted to his feet grabbed a revolver from a drawer and ran to the door and opened it. He stepped into the alley waving the barrel in the air. “It is just that mongrel dog that hangs around here. For a moment I thought we were being spied upon.” He kicked the dog, it gave a yelp and scampered off. “Get out of here…damned egg-suck-n mutt!” Amr stepped back inside and locked the door.

Crockett brushed his fingers through his thin slightly graying hair and said, “Let’s not get too excited as all this is probably nothing and could lead one to a desecrated tomb; however this cannot be dismissed until we understand the writing. It definitely is not a business receipt like most of the parchments we find all the time.” He leaned back in the rickety chair and folded his hands behind his head feeling comfortable. “What did you have in mind? Did you want to sell this—get it interpreted?”

Amr thought a moment and said, “I can always sell it to tourists as a wall decoration however I do not think either of us wants to do that. I would like to give it to you to study and then we can go from there—partner?” He extended his hand and Crocket shook it.

“Yes, partners we shall be my good friend.” Crockett peered intently into his eyes and smiled. “Perhaps we have finally found good fortune. At this moment I feel fortunate that you have taken me into your confidence.”

Alifa set out place settings for three and said, “You must stay for dinner. Do you like chicken?”

Crockett enjoyed the home cooked meal and felt he had found a real friend before he departed and headed back to his leased two bedroom house on the edge of the oasis. He pulled into the dusty driveway and glanced briefly at the pinkish sunset across the Sahara as he unlocked the back door. He opened a few windows and turned on several fans that would blow out the heat of the day. He checked his mail and tossed all but the utility bill in the waste basket. He took a cold shower, shaved his beard and enjoyed a cool breeze that drifted through the house. He poured himself lemonade with lots of ice and wrote an email to his son Quentin:

He checked for incoming email and the usual junk filled the screen. There was nothing from Quentin which was not unexpected as he wrote once or twice a month. His twenty-two year old son lived in America and worked at a museum that obtained occasional grants for minor digs and he was always nice enough to invite the old man along. Nothing came up this year so he planned to vacation and take in the sites at Luxor before visiting in Fayoum. He was tinkering with the idea of joining him there as he had not seen all the attractions. He told himself that he should see everything as he was an archeologist and it was his job to see it all. He clicked off the computer and returned to the parchment which he spread on the kitchen table and held it down with drinking glasses much like Amr had done earlier.

His thoughts wandered as he studied the document. He told himself he would need to find someone who knew Tuareg, or whatever language was written and yet not someone who would want to share in the possible message. Perhaps he could copy portions of it and show parts of it to different people such that only he would have knowledge of the entire contents. That was it. He would copy parts of it and then store the original in a safe place.

I must prepare for the possibility of burglars breaking into the house or a fire breaking out. He found a metal box, carefully folded the parchment and placed it inside. He decided he would memorize the map portions and eventually would bury the box out in the back yard. For now he would study it and begin making copies of the writing. No one would ever see the map portions as the final clues to possible treasure were hidden there. Soon he became dreary and fell asleep across the table dreaming of the great wealth secreted in the parchment.

Her first name was Ci—for at least as long as she could remember. She could never recall that anyone had ever called her Cindy although she was sure that was the name on her birth certificate and then maybe not. It seemed that perhaps her parents were not sure what to name her. They had named their son Raymond Junior after her father however her mother’s name was Susan. So where in heaven’s name did “Ci” come up? From time to time as a child she often came near the point of inquiry, and then gave it up. The issue was mute—dead in the water. Her name was Ci and that was the beginning and the end of it.

Quentin. Quentin where are you? She glanced anxiously at her gold plated Cellissama Rolex then adjusted the head gear over her ears, pulled the Ruger .22 caliber from her holster

and squeezed off six rapid fire shots with deadly accuracy into the bulls-eye. There was a pugnacious understanding in her acorn eyes as each bullet ruthlessly jetted across the range and tore into its mark. Ci Lancaster’s eyes had a way of turning swiftly upon an object and then capturing it as though frozen in time. Most often she emitted rays of sunshine all around however—at this moment— her face was as cold as the wind lifting off an icy mountain crevice.

She had purchased a Mark III with a bull barrel not knowing much more than the praises of the salesperson and could now understand just how smoothly the weapon reacted to her silk-like touch. It had little kickback as she initially anticipated when she made the purchase. Today she was finishing up the mandatory training required for a new gun owner in the florescent lit basement of the Springfield police target range. The initial fear of owning a gun was gone and now she felt a sense of power as never before. She had no plans to carry it or ever use it—simply another skill to add to her repertoire.

She wore her beauty effortlessly, much like a leopard wore its spots, without thought or concern. Several male police officers were hovering around her all vying for attention however she was accustomed to this kind of reaction because of her sleek figure and possibly because her dad owned RL Enterprises. She imagined it had more to do with her stunning figure and high cheekbones which she had inherited from her mother although her dad was not to be dismissed either with his six-foot plus towering frame. As always she was focused on her work which right now was shooting the hell out of the target which she imagined was some rapist jumping out of the shadows. Taste this you sonuvabitch.

She let go with another volley and briefly toyed with the idea of shooting the life-size paper figure in the balls, but thought better of it—a gun was not a plaything she reminded herself and squeezed off a final round.

“Nice shooting!” all three officers agreed. One of them pushed the button that brought the target up close. The bull’s eye was blown away and the rest of the target was untouched. The tallest officer inserted a fresh target and sent it back to the far wall where Ci dropped to one knee, held the pistol at arm’s length and fired three shots into the target. She dropped to the prone position and decimated the target with a furious volley that sent deafening echoes throughout the room.

“GNARLY!” exclaimed the blond officer. “He turned to his friends. “This is one broad…”

“EXCUSE ME!” said Ci staring intently, “BROAD?” Her brow furrowed. This was a clear affront to her…

“This is one fine lady who knows how to take care for herself,” interrupted Quentin Crockett who had just arrived in time to see the shooting exhibition. “Be careful what you say to any woman who is holding a gun!”

He was taller than her and broader, a well manicured bear alongside a Kentucky thoroughbred, his face huge and craggy. Like something chiseled out of wood, rough hewn and handsome at the same time. “Sorry I got a little behind schedule hon’.”

Ci gave him an affectionate peck on the lips and said, “Let’s see what you can do tiger.”

An officer who wore an ID tag on his chest identifying him as Christopher slapped the back of his friend’s head. “He comes from the wrong side of the tracks and doesn’t know any better.”

“Thank you Christopher,” said Ci. The three returned to their place in the firing line and continued shooting as it was apparent the newcomer had all the bases covered.

Quentin opened up his red trimmed molded gun case and brought out a similar Ruger .22 that was only a little bit heavier. He had purchased a pistol in order to share in the experience.

He rather resembled a lion with broad shoulders that was covered with a dark blue sweater that tapered down his tight muscular midriff. Ci noted his thick tawny hair was modestly short, well cut, and streaked. He maintained a short beard and mustache that did little to hide the unconventional handsome face that that was too individual—too rugged—for an easy label. Despite the grooming, he somehow looked uncivilized. He certainly wasn’t conventionally handsome.

Underneath the bold exterior was the heart of a teddy bear that she often felt she wanted to hold close and cuddle; however she would never reveal this secret desire with him as they played cat and mouse—a game that was mischievously delicious—and would never end.

Cat and mouse began the day they met. She found herself knocking on the door to his office at the museum.

“Pardon me. I am looking for the curator?” she was startled to see a broad shouldered man sitting behind a desk—she estimated him to be nearly as young as her. “Do you know where he might be?”

“I am Ci—Ci Lancaster and I thought I would bring over the annual donation this year. It seems so impersonal to send a check in the mail.”

“I see. Something compelled you this year then?” Something eminently masculine— yet more than compassionate beaconed from his eye “How very thoughtful Ms. Lancaster. You are the daughter of Raymond Lancaster then?”

She handed him the check. “Yes, for the last twenty-two years, I have been his…”

“No, no—it is a simple question. I could have been his wife,” she laughed.

He chuckled, “That would be something I suppose.” His brow went up at the thought as his eyes studied her face.

“I thought I was looking for a dodgy ole’ man.” She gave a shake of her head, and brushed back her hair; snowflakes drifted to the floor in a puddle. “Well, I must be on my way. It was nice to…”

“Ms. Lancaster, there is no rush…perhaps some refreshment.” He reached into his pockets. “Now were the hell did I leave my keys? I had them this morning.” He began patting himself down and muttering to himself.

“They must be here somewhere; perhaps if you retraced your steps.” He suddenly seemed so vulnerable, so open with his thoughts he was an open book unable to hide anything.

He jumped up and ran to a coat rack and began going though the pockets. “Nope, not here,” he laughed, “I’m an archeologist for Christ’s sake. I am supposed to be an expert at finding stuff, not losing things.”

“The fridge!” he exclaimed and ran to the refrigerator in the corner. He opened the door rummaged around and turned with the keys in his hand. “Ah ha! I could give you…”

He apparently surprised himself. “Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to …” He pushed away.

“A man should not kiss and run.” Ci drew him in and returned a languorous kiss firmly on his lips.

So impetuous—it was one of the really daring moments of her entire life. One thing led to another during the two weeks; at the very least they were getting to know one another. He made her laugh—something she seldom did until she met him.

Quentin attached a fresh target, slid a magazine into the handle, extended his arms and took aim with his right eye. The barrel took on a life of its own and quivered in his hand as he squeezed off his first shot.

Ci observed all this and said, “That was the most pathetic thing I have ever seen. You look good standing there, but eventually you will need to hit something.” She demonstrated the correct form. “Let’s try something different. Try turning to the side, level out your arm and squeeze the moment you think you have it lined up. Do it in one motion. If you hesitate, it will never happen.”

Quentin tried it again however he was not doing well. Ci moved up behind close to him, took his arm and led him though it. He seemed to have it and she stepped back to let him shoot. “Like this?” he said as he squeezed off a round.

“Yes, that is better. You need more help to get to right.” She stood in front of him this time, moved close and held his arm as she led him through it.” You are much too tense. Take a deep breath, slowly point and squeeze.”

Quentin inhaled deeply and let her move his arm into position and squeezed the trigger when it felt right. “I hit it!”

Her lips were an inch away from his. “See, you can do it.” Her eyes sparkled and she allowed him to seize the moment and accepted a kiss. “I am afraid we have violated protocol here. If we keep doing this we will forget about the gun and injure someone—or something personal in your trousers.” She stepped back and moved to her booth as she saw the instructor approaching who had been on a break “Practice now that you understand and then we will go.”

“Yes.” Ci fired off the six required shots for the test with dignified ease and handed the paper target to the instructor.

As the certificate was signed the gray haired instructor congratulated her. “You are truly gifted. Many train for years and never acquire the skills you possess. I watched you from the shadows today. You know you violated all the protocol; however you are well beyond the rules with your abilities. We are teaching first grade skills and you are the equivalent of a black belt master.” He extended his hand. “Hopefully you will never need these skills. It has been a pleasure Ms. Lancaster.”

Ci and Quentin packed the weapons into the carrying cases and walked to the parking lot where the landscape was covered in white, while flakes of snow fluttered gently in the blackness of the February sky. They stood under the lamplight surrounded by silent empty darkness. It was as though one was standing on a vacant stage with a single spotlight and the assemblage was silent, awaiting the words that would enthrall them forever. In this intimate moment that only nature could provide Quentin said, “I have feelings for you Ci. I …”

She placed a finger to his lips. “I know… I have them for you too. It is wonderful and we must enjoy it and embrace it as it is. Let’s make nothing more or less of it and be happy for what we have.” She accepted his kiss and returned it passionately and pushed him away before she was overcome with desire. “We must go now.”

The white flakes melted as quickly as they fell upon him and Quentin’s face was covered with wetness. He said, “I want to take you to dinner tomorrow. It is Valentine’s Day. Would you be my Valentine?” He smiled and gently brushed the wet glistening flakes that had fallen upon her face under the golden glow of the lamp light. He whispered into her ear, “I ask for nothing more.”

Amr Riftaat rose shortly after dawn in the bedroom at the back of the Fayoum Parchment and Antiquities Shop. After a quick shower and shave he performed his first of

five rituals of worship for the day. He stood, kneeled, bowed, recited the prayers and finished feeling refreshed and ready for whatever Allah would bring his way.

“Thanks be to Allah. His power is great.” He boiled a pot of water, added coffee and watched it boil up before pouring it into a cup. He sipped the coffee and wandered into the shop that he would open shortly and welcome customers from around the world.

He found a baladi which he found to be more comfortable with the longer sleeves and round neck than the djellaba. The differences were subtle however he found that customers responded to his suggestions more readily on days when he dressed this way. He finished it off with a garrulous turban with an oval ruby colored jeweled glass. He imagined that this was the way tourists expected an Arab to look and he was not going to disappoint them—especially if it resulted in hard cash in the till at the end of the day.

Fayoum was the oasis center of Egypt for the discovery of ancient parchments and various mummified treasures. When mummies were buried very often a portrait was painted of the deceased and placed inside the ossuary. These soon became known as the Fayoum portraits and hang in museums throughout Egypt and the rest of the world. Hand painted copies were sold and cheaper prints—all very beautiful—in his shop. Nothing was sold as being valuable or a true antique and the trading of something obvious like this was illegal. That was not a concern as nothing important ever found its way into his shop. He told himself that the African Parchment was not Egyptian and did not come under the antiquities law.

He had discovered that most tourists did not respond well to hard-sell pitches in the street like the fortune teller across the street. They did need prompting and low key sales pitches about new scrolls arriving from the tombs.

“Humble Amr invite you to be first—look over items brought in from newly discovered tomb of Ramesses. Nothing promised, but only Allah knows what may be there. I am unable to read well or translate. I have little knowledge of such things.” It was tiny stretch of the truth and he hoped Allah would forgive him the first time he fabricated the pitch. After that he gave it little thought.

This pitch combined with a generally disheveled table or two piled with parchments—some real and nearly worthless—and others manufactured for the trade generally resulted in a sale when bargain hunters talked him down to half price—usually five or ten pounds. Of course the going rate was half price and most everyone suspected as much. On occasion a customer would tidy up the clutter and his wife would go behind and place it back in disarray as it sold better that way. Often she dumped the dust from the floor onto the table rather than the waste basket.

The rest of the bric-a-brac: the hanging brass lanterns, pharaoh’s masks, bird cages, heavy incense and such, were the mood enhancements for the sale of the parchments. If he was fortunate, someone would seek comfort in an Egyptian themed couch or chair while a spouse was rummaging through the store. He had a DVD player with English movies running continuously on a large screen television. Sitting beside this comfortable setting he had a sign free shipping of furniture any where in the world that often produced some spectacular sales. Most of the furniture was manufactured in America and Europe so the sale was a drop-ship with little added expense for him.

Most of the parchments were brought in by villagers who found them in forgotten trunks when settling an estate. Often they were handed down for several generations in hopes that they may have value one day. There was too much of it and it was often the trunk that had a little bit of worth.

The African Parchment had been brought into the shop in a wooden trunk nearly three weeks ago. “Salaam aleykum. Do you purchase parchments?” inquired the middle-aged Arab wearing a saudi with a button up neck and scratching at his chest as though he had an insect bite or infection.

“Yes, however I hope you do not believe they have any great value,” Amr answered as he sized up the villager in hopes of obtaining something of value for a song. “Do you have them with you?”

Amr followed the gentlemen to the street and the two lifted the dilapidated trunk from the back of a Chevy, carried it into the store and dropped it on the floor kicking up some dust. Inside were several thousand dusty yellow-brownish parchments and some scarabs and glass jewelry. Amr rummaged through the items on the top—there was no point in dragging it all out—and could see it was the usual merchandise that he sold to the tourists who wanted some Egyptian memento that was authentic and yet had little value.

“These are scrap parchments—just invoices and business receipts and not that old. There is nothing from a tomb here. Customers look for something they can frame—something with illustrations.” He offered the usual price and said, “Twenty Egyptian pounds is a fair price for this if you leave the trunk.” He knew the man would leave it for free just to get rid of it, however he knew that the villagers would continue to bring him trunks like this knowing by word of mouth that he would pay them. Otherwise they would throw everything in the trash and his source of pita and butter items would dry up.

The gentlemen seemed happy to unload it all and agreed to the price. Amr imagined that his wife told him not to come back with it regardless of price. They would go to a restaurant with the newfound money and enjoy the evening. All was well. Amr pulled the bills from the register and the customer drove off happy with the transaction.

Alifa set to the task of sorting it all out and affixing price tags. She did this at a table near the front counter with the chest sitting on the floor to one side. This allowed her to keep busy when not ringing up a sale. Several days later she found the African Parchment. “Amr!” she exclaimed, “You must see this!”

“What is it?” He had been standing out front watching the European tourists come and go from a coffee shop down the street and rushed to her side. He imagined she had found a dead mongoose inside and needed a brave man to remove it. Emergencies for a woman were sometimes frivolous.

“Look at this. It is truly beautiful is it not?” She held the parchment in her hands from behind the counter and spread it before him. “This will fetch a good price, yes?”

“Oh yes—a very good price indeed.” He caressed the paper and ran his fingers over it from top to bottom. He saw the maps, the unfamiliar writing and strange symbols and knew this was not an Egyptian parchment. The texture was coarse, not nearly as smooth as the others. His eyes widened and he felt his heart pounding widely. “This is big! Really really big! Allah smiles on Amr today.”

Amr jolted back from the memory of that fateful day and leaned against the wall outside the shop observing the fortune teller urging the tourists to come inside and look at the postcards and alabaster carvings. “Free fortune told. Habib knows all, sees all. This may be your lucky day.”

Habib was charming enough and strolled across the street over to his shop to chat nearly everyday. It seemed that he was too friendly and occasionally asked an out-of-place question and often led a conversation into an area that was obtrusive. He was more like a gossiping busy-body female who talked too much. One needed to be on guard and careful not to talk about the other merchants as Habib used information to turn one against another. Habib’s business did not appear that successful, even with the fortune teller routine that drew customers into his shop. It was a good gimmick, however he did not follow it up with the proper selection of merchandise and the layout of the shop was less than it could have been. His fortune telling must have been good; however as Habib’s tip jar was always full of coins—unless of course he put them inside himself.

A white Cadillac with gold rims and tinted windows moved slowly down the street and parked in front of the Fortunes of the Pharaohs shop and inched to a stop. Two Arabs stepped out dressed in black djellabas and one opened the door for a bald tall man dressed in a white suit and carrying a matching cane. He was broad shouldered and generally an imposing impressive figure of a man—probably Russian or German judging from the square facial lines and heavy brows. He popped a date into his mouth and squinted with blacker-than-charcoal eyes at the little boy who had rushed up to him. “Shoe-shine mister?”

“How kind of you to offer—please come inside as it is much too hot to stand out here in the sun,” he said with a Russian accent as he offered the boy a date. One of the assistants opened the door for the tall one while the other followed looking uneasily this way and that as if something foreboding was anticipated.

Amr felt uneasy when he saw all this, however quickly dismissed the feeling as he was a good Moslem and prayed that day for good fortune. “Allah is with me,” he said out loud and went about his work the rest of the day.

Around four’o clock the phone rang and Amr picked it up. “Hello. This is Fayoum Parchment and Antiquities Shop. May I help you?”

“Hi Amr, this is Crockett. I called to let you know I am going to go to Siwa for the next day or two and see if I can find someone to translate the Parchment.”

“That sounds very good my friend. Let us pray that you discover its meaning while you are there.” Amr polished a scarab with his sleeve that hung from a gold chain around his neck. “I will pray to Allah that all goes well on your journey.”

“I will pray for you as well.” Crockett sat with his cell phone beneath the shade umbrella watching his two workers digging up around a new wall in the center of the Bacchias site. I called to tell you that I am leaving information about the location of the Parchment in my back yard. It is a code so if someone stumbled on it they would not really understand it like you and I. I buried it exactly thirty steps straight out from the back door and then thirty steps to the left. I have placed three stones above it so it is easy to find.”

“Thirty and thirty, I understand. I have been there and can picture exactly where it is.”

“Yes, it should not be so close to you. It is good that you take these precautions.”

Alifa said, “I must go to the market for some fresh vegetables for our dinner. You may close up while I am gone.” She gave him a kiss and disappeared down the street wearing her black hijab.

Amr looked at his watch and saw that it was time to lockup just as the bells jangled and the tall Russian and the two Moslems entered. “We were about to close. Please look around. There is no rush.”

One of the men walked past him as though he were invisible, passed through the door to the kitchen and checked the lock at the back. “Wait…that is not an area for customers and we have no bathroom. I am sorry,” said Amr. Terror filled him and his heart pounded against his chest. Something was not right here and he began preparations to bolt for the door and run into the street.

Uneasily he inquired, “If there is anything in particular you were looking for…”

The tall Russian with both hands before him supported on a white cane spoke, “Matter of fact there is something in particular.” A sign of the scorpion peeked from beneath the sleeve.

The bell clamored and a tourist began to enter. One of the Moslems blocked the tourist from entering and said, “I am sorry we are closed. Come back tomorrow.” He gave the tourist a push out the door, locked it and placed the “Closed” sign in the window. Both placed red hoods, not unlike those worn by Ku Klux Klansmen, over their faces that left only their eyes showing. Amr had worked his way behind the counter and the Moslems moved toward him.

“Please, I have little money. Take it if you wish.” He opened the cash register and set the bills on the counter. Have mercy! You may have anything you wish!” He raised his hands and moved backward against the wall as though a gun was being pointed at him.

The Russian said, “I want the African Parchment…and you will give it to me. Set a price and I will pay you and leave. That is all.” He pulled a white carnation that was slightly askew from his lapel, inhaled the fragrance and reset it. “Come out from behind the counter and put your hands down. This is not a robbery. I wish to do business.”

Amr felt a tiny bit better and had hoped he had misunderstood the onerous trappings of the visitors. He walked around the counter and stood with sweaty hands before the tall one. “I do not have anything like that. Did you say African Parchment? Everything here is Egyptian as you can see. You may have come to the wrong shop. Perhaps you would like to look over the table…”

“Enough fucking gibberish.” The giant slammed the cane on the counter and it made a crack like a whip cutting through flesh. He moved belly to belly and the two henchmen grabbed Amr’s arms and forced him to his knees. One grabbed his hair and jerked his head back while the Russian looked down into his eyes.

“Tell me where it is! I am becoming impatient.” He pulled a gold plated cigar cutter from a leather pouch and held it in front of the trembling merchant. He waved it in front of Amr’s eyes. “Do you have a cigar? I seemed to have forgotten mine,” he whispered as spittle spilled down the corner of his mouth.

He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the wetness from his chin. “Forgive me. It is a medical condition and most repulsive.” He gave a signal to the henchmen and they released their grip on the shopkeeper. One went to the kitchen and returned with a white pan filled with water and stood silently holding it in his hands.

The Russian whispered, “I do not hear you. Did you tell me where the Parchment is hidden?” He placed his hands into the water and dried them meticulously with the towel draped over the Moslem’s arm.

“I do not have it,” sobbed Amr. He knew he would tell this man anything he wanted. “It is not here and I do not know where it is!”

“That is unfortunate for you.” The Moslem set down the pan and the pair of henchmen grabbed Amr and forced his right-hand forward. The Russian slipped Amr’s little finger into the hole of the cutter. “Are you sure you do not know where to find the Parchment?”

Amr screamed, “I swear I do not know. The professor has it! He took it with him! Have mercy please in the name of Allah!”

“Too late my friend.” He snapped off the finger with the cutter and blood spilled to the carpet. He slipped the cutter around another finger.” Does this professor have a name—perhaps an address? It is nice to see we are speaking civilly now.”

“Yes! Yes! Professor Crockett. He took it with him and he has it! Stop this as that is all I know.” He struggled to wrench free however the Moslems were strong and held firm.

“You should have offered me a cigar my friend,” said the Russian as he lopped off another finger with the cutter. “I need an address, a phone number.”

Amr screamed in pain and wept when he saw the two fingers on the floor. “I do not know where he lives. I have never phoned him. Look in the phone book as he may be listed. He lives in the area, but I do not know where.”

“Now look at you. You have two fingers that are much too long and a thumb you really can do without.” He placed the cutter around the thumb. “Does Professor Crockett work somewhere?”

“He works at the old ruins—the ruins of Bacchias a few miles out of town. He is there nearly every day!”

“Yes. Professor Crockett has the Parchment! I swear to you it is not here and he has it.”

The Russian said, “I am glad we had this little chat.” He sliced off the thumb and Amr screamed again.

The henchmen raised Amr to his feet. “You have been most helpful as I knew you would.” He picked up his white cane and a steel blade flashed at the tip. I did promise to leave you…perhaps again sometime we can have a little chat.” He slid the blade into Amr’s abdomen and twisted the blade with a sadistic smile, “and then—perhaps not.”

The sadist pulled the blade from Amr and wiped it clean with the towel while Amr slumped to the floor. “Finish him,” he commanded with a look of utter disdain. One of the hooded Moslems flashed a knife and slit the throat of the dying shopkeeper.

“I do so hate these little chats,” said the Russian as he dipped his fingers into the pan of water and wiped his hands on a fresh towel as though it were a religious rite.

“Die you sonuvabitch!” Alifa appeared from the kitchen with a revolver surprising the trio. She had heard the screams and used her key to slip in the back door and pull the weapon from the drawer. Now she stood face to face confronting three figures who had killed her husband who laid spewing blood from his throat onto the floor. The hooded figure on the floor sprang to his feet and rushed toward Alifa with his blood drenched knife. There was no hesitation as Alifa pulled the trigger and fired a single shot that ripped through the face of the hooded figure. She stepped aside and the momentum carried the lifeless body past her landing on a table of parchments spilling much of it into the air and like snowflakes they fluttered to the floor.

The Russian raised his hands and said, “Let’s not be hasty. There has been a slight misunderstanding here. All is not what it seems.” He smiled and spoke caressingly in the heavy Russian accent. “We should calm down and call the police. We saw something going on and stopped in to… stop a burglary.” He moved slowly forward with his cane tightly clenched.”

“Get back motherfucker!” screamed Alifa. She saw the hooded figure moving in from the shadows at her side. She held the revolver at arms length and pointed it at him. Get back cocksuckers! Both of you—get back or I’ll kill you! I swear I’ll kill you both!” She felt as though she had fallen into a snake pit and was lost in a Salvador Dali landscape. She pointed the gun at one then the other as each moved progressively closer like hooded cobras ready to strike when they could.

She could see no response to her command. It was apparent they were not going to surrender. “Die motherfuckncocksuckers!” She pulled the trigger and shot the hooded figure three times as he lunged at her. She stepped aside as he sailed past her and landed on the table with the other. He pushed himself off the table and stood looking down—bewildered at the blood stains that soaked his djellaba.

The tall Russian saw this as an opportunity and knocked the revolver from her hand sending it to the floor with a stroke of the cane. “You will be with Allah this day... but only after I give you pleasure—pleasure and such exquisite pain. You will squeal like a pig when I am through with you.” He lurched forward with his cane, toying with her—the steel blade bathed in glistening golden rays in the late afternoon sun that had found its way through the front window. He made his move and thrust the cane.

Alifa saw it coming and grabbed the hooded terrorist beside her and pushed him onto the blade. “Master?” he cried as though a matador had struck the final merciful killing stroke. She gave him a kick from behind tumbling the near lifeless body onto the Russian knocking him into a river of blood that soaked the floor. She found the revolver, fired and the hooded figure absorbed the bullet as the Russian struggled to push the near lifeless henchman off him. He found his cane, however Alifa stood on it nailing it to the floor while pointing the revolver at his heart. She lost her footing as he grabbed the leg of a table and pulled over a heap of wooden pharaoh’s masks that spilled against her. He crawled for the door apparently deciding upon a retreat. Alifa heard the jangle of the front door and decided to follow him however the hooded terrorist had some life in him and was back on his feet moving toward her. She fired a volley of shots that pushed him backward through the front window—hands and arms dangling like a macabre marionette—where he landed in a shower of splintered glass on the concrete sidewalk. This is not over she told herself and stepped over the body of her dead husband and out the door where she saw the Russian staggering to the Cadillac across the street fumbling with keys he had pulled from his pocket. When he reached the door she fired and he tumbled to the ground briefly—crimson wetness appearing on his upper thigh—and slithered like a python to the door while she walked across the pavement ready to administer the death blow.

She walked mercilessly up to the Cadillac—her sandals clicking steadfastly against the steamy pavement as he crawled into the driver’s seat. His white suit now a crimson red drenched the white interior. He slammed the door and brought the engine to life as Alifa approached. Terror filled his eyes as she tore open the door and placed the revolver to his temple. “Say your prayers to Allah motherfucker.” She pulled the trigger and then again—only to hear the empty click of the chamber. The Russian pushed her back, slammed the door shut and burned squealing rubber as he spun out of sight.