Queens of the Night

By Victor C Bush

Queens of the Night, book three featuring criminology professor Sarah Ann Milland¬¬ -Sam to her friends- is working on an archeological dig in Jordan. She and Boots, the dig director, while surveying the area from the air in an ultra-light aircraft narrowly escape being shot down by a criminal gang in the process of looting priceless artifacts.
Sam, her father and her ex-husband and lover-police detective Geoff, discover that the dig is a cover for a scheme to counterfeit priceless treasures. With Sam’s friend Lee-Ann, a Mossad agent, they uncover the plot to sell these treasures through a chain of international art galleries with proceeds allegedly going to charities. The money is really destined to fund terrorism.
Murder, blackmail, and an elaborate plot make Queens of the Night a must read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victor C Bush
• Release date: Oct 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9780994084736

Victor C Bush

I’ve been a potter, painter, board game inventor and served as a member and team artist on an archeologist dig, in Amman, Jordan. I’ve pulled weeds in a golf course (The only job I have ever quit!), dock worker, bus-boy, waiter, and ditch digger for a railway. I was also the first in my family to finish high school. While attending night school for nine years in pursuit of a Fine Arts degree, followed by graduate courses in administration, I simultaneously taught in both elementary and high schools which included working with adult and Aboriginal students in both English and French. These skills and experiences provide ample material that drive my imagination to weave intricate and gripping mystery novels.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Ultralight slipped to the left and dropped precipitously.  I panicked and dug my fingers into his shoulder.  Essentially we were in a motorcycle sidecar attached to a hang glider with a huge propeller behind my ass.  It scared the hell out of me.

Sorry, Sam.   I loosened my grip and wiped my sweaty hands on my shirt.  My jaws ached from clenching my teeth.

You okay?

I've been better.  Try to keep this damn thing level, okay?

He shook his head and chuckled.  Heat thermals, he told me, rising from the shimmering desert caused unpredictable drafts.  If it's unpredictable then it ain't safe.  I held my tongue, not wanting to appear the spoiled princess.  Why the hell did I let him talk me into this?

See that profile?  Beyond that ridge?  He pointed to the right and simultaneously pushed the bar left turning us towards the ridge.  The move was counterintuitive and I fought the urge to shift my weight.  Any movement made the craft move although he assured me —tried to assure me— we were perfectly safe.

I swallowed and turned my head towards the ridge.

Kind of looks like a large tooth.

Right.  That's it exactly.  See how it's not rounded and soft like the natural area around it?

Yes. As if I cared at this point.  The terrain looked all the same to me, just another sandy hill among thousands.  How he could tell one dune from another was beyond me.  He pushed out on the bar or whatever the hell was making this thing climb and my stomach dropped. Eyes closed, I white knuckled the back of his seat, willing the gods of machines to deliver us safely, forcing myself not to lean left when the right wing dipped towards the anomalous formation.

Might be worth investigating.  Look, he pointed.  See how those rocks are strewn?"

Jesus, Boots.  For God's sake, keep both hands on the bar will you!

"Relax, relax.  You're in good hands here. I'm going to lose some altitude –intentionally so don't have a fit.  I want to get a closer look."

The muscles on his forearms bulged as he pulled on the bar, bringing the ground closer.  We were a hundred or so feet above the ridge, circling it slowly in a wide lazy turn.  Any slower I was sure we'd drop like a rock.  My shirt and pants were glued to me.  You won't sweat, I was told.  Too dry.  Well I had news.

Look.  See that line formed by the rocks? How they form almost a right angle?

I could barely see the rocks.

Can you mark that spot on the map? 

I was supposedly the navigator.

Uh, sorry.  I told you I wasn't very good at this sort of thing.

No problem.  He put his hand back and I gave him the clipboard with the map and Sharpie. He checked his watch, scanned the horizon then busied himself with the map.  I busied myself with what might be called praying, regretting being so out of practice. 

Here, he said, handing it back.  That's close enough.  We've been flying a beeline from the camp and from the time and airspeed I figure that's the spot.  More or less.

With shaking hands I replaced the clipboard in the pouch behind his seat.  Boots had cobbled together a makeshift pocket out of duct tape.  The whole damn contraption looked cobbled together from bits of tubing, wire and duct tape. And every time the engine whined or changed its pitch I figured it had to be the end. 

That's it, Sam.  Ready to head back?

You got to be kidding.  I held my breath, my eyes closed, as he banked and turned.  I'd been ready to turn back for most of the forty minutes we'd been in the air —from about thirty seconds after liftoff.  I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.  The scenery was truly spectacular, but fear of dying made it rather hard to enjoy.  The ground rose up dizzyingly as we lost altitude in the turn, and my whole body went rigid in preparation for the inevitable crash into the stony desert.  I willed myself to relax, get loose.  Like a drunk.  They don't hurt themselves when they fall, do they? I sure as hell was going to knock back a few if I survived.

Boots heard my sharp intake of breath and laughed.

Sam.  I promise you.  This baby is safer than a 747.  Even if the engine cuts out we just drift along until we land.  Ever hear of a jumbo that can do that?

Gimli!  I managed to squeeze out.

What?  Oh, Gimli!  Yeah, right.

From the ground the desert was beautiful, but from a couple of hundred feet up it was indescribable.  Broad plains between deep valleys, the banks of the wadis dense with oleander.  The colours –a hundred shades of tan, shadows purple and deep, delineated sharply by the harsh sun, contrasted against irrigated plots lush and green that occasionally dotted the desert under a sky so blue and clear it hurt your eyes.

We climbed higher then leveled off, slowly enough that my stomach wasn't left behind.

Sam, he said into the headset. There’s another area I’d like to check out. It's not far out of our way.  You okay with that?

I didn’t answer.  He’d kill me yet.

Won't be long, I promise.  Hang in; it's only about ten minutes or so out of the way.  We'll be back, he checked his watch again, about forty, forty-five minutes.  Instead of an out and back, this little detour will make it a long triangle.  Okay?

Another ten minutes won't make a difference in the fear factor, so let's do it. 

He kept up a general patter about the beauty of the landscape commenting on the ancient armies that fought over water and grazing rights, the people who eked out a miserable living in the harsh land then and now.

Those crusaders? Saladin just sat and waited with his men for the heat of the sun to roast them to death in their armour.  Just a matter of time until they dropped from their horses.  Mind you some of the horses might have collapsed first.  He laughed but I was too far-gone to see the humour.

The terrain became a little hillier so he pushed the craft higher, not that we were low enough to hit them.    I concentrated on breathing. 

You okay back there?  I forgot he could hear my every breath.

Just thinking about the crusaders. 

He continued his commentary which helped distract me.

Probably quite a few sites to be discovered right around us.  Enough peaks and ridges for a chain of outposts.  I’ll have to research the feasibility of trade routes.

Where are we going?

A friend of mind surveyed the area a couple of years back.  Said he came across something he thought might be promising.

What do you mean?

"Well… he crisscrossed the area in a Jeep.  Don't think I could ever get him up here.  Andy likes to keep both feet on the ground.  Or the sand in this case.

Can't say that I blame him.

See that?  He pointed vaguely to the right and traced a wide circle.  Might have been an oasis or well way back when.  Andy didn't do any digging but told me there were a lot of pottery shards at the bottom of the ridge.  Figured there had to be some significant habitation.  The top of the ridge –the tell– is about a hundred and fifty meters by about sixty or sixty-five.  Forms a rough kind of oval.  And encircling it partially about ten meters from the top he thought he could detect the hint of a wall."

A wall?

"Well it doesn't look like a wall now.  Not after more than two thousand years.  But like I said before, the landform is unnatural looking.  Not like the other ridges.  Erosion and drifting sand and what have you bury abandoned sites real fast here.  One season –one season, Sam– you get a couple of inches of accumulation.  So figure what can happen after two millennia."

How can he tell the age of the tell?

Pottery.  The shards suggest anywhere from four hundred BCE to two, maybe three hundred AD.  Late Iron Age. My guess is it's probably Roman, but it's only a guess.  I'll have to see it.

Amazing. All it takes is a few broken pieces of pottery to motivate you guys to suffer heat, dirt, lack of water, scorpions and a diet of goat cheese and olives.

You got it!

Give me a McDonald’s any time.

Hey, Sam.  Give me a break here.  What about my team?

They’re great. But for some broken pots?

Not only pots. Small sculptures too, all kinds of clay artifacts.  Andy's guess is the place was a cult center, a tourist center for pilgrims or worshippers.

And this could be important.

Could be, Sam.  Could be.

I'd known Boots for about six years.  He lectured at the university where I worked.  I taught sociology and consulted with police departments on matters of criminal reform.  I was also big on humanizing the penal system and gung-ho on working harder to rehab criminals.  Actually my father accused me of being a bull in a china shop when it came to incarcerating juvenile offenders.

We flew in silence, awed by the stark, still beauty.  Not a cloud, not a bird— nothing for miles except sandy hills and plains dotted with short, coarse plants struggling to keep the incessant winds from rearranging the landscape.  Boots, I knew was lost in imagining ancient armies and cult worshippers.  Dreaming of finding the Ark of the Covenant. 

Over there, he said, pointing to a large mound looming ahead.  See how the top falls away to that ledge?  That's probably what's left of the wall.

All I saw was a rock strewn bulge about a third of the way down from the top.  But it did give the appearance that it might have once encircled the mound.  Now it just seemed to peter out, falling away to blend in with the general slope of the hill.

He lost some altitude, still staying well above the height of the tell, and slowly circled the face fronting us in a wide arc.  My stomach reacted and I unconsciously leaned away from the tilt.

Don't fight it, Sam.  Go with it.  We really are quite safe.  I took some slow breaths.

That’s good. 

We crested the hill and to our surprise, below us at the base of the tell, were several camels and their drivers.  The men, shielding their eyes against the glare, looked up.  One man in western clothes got out of the cab of a pick-up.

Boots!

Got it, he said, instinctively veering left and initiating a climb.

Jesus!  The man by the pick-up was pointing something at us that looked too much like a rifle.  An Arab ran over and pulled his arm down.  The man with the rifle shoved him away.

I know, I know!  Hang the fuck on.

Boots! On the other side of the hill he went into a dive partly, he told me later, to gain speed and get the fuck out of the guy's sight. 

Boots come on!  Come on!  Move this fucken thing!  I heard the engine change pitch, his right foot working the throttle.  Fear of crashing, fear of being chewed by the propeller inches behind me, and fear of being shot out of the goddamn sky was more than enough.  I looked at the gouge that suddenly appeared in the strut inches above my head.

God damn it, if you don't get us out of here, Boots I'll kill you myself!

Boy! he said when we were out of range or at least out of sight. 

A quarter of an hour later he said, Twenty minutes.  Twenty more minutes we'll be at the camp.  I don't know about you, Sam, but I'm going to need a very stiff drink.

Fifteen minutes later we made out the camp.  The main tent, really just a very large canopy, was never so welcoming, not a McDonald’s but the Ritz.  When they heard our approach all activity stopped, everyone staring up waving and shouting, the basket boys ever ready for an excuse to stop for a smoke. 

Boots over flew the camp, then turned to face into the wind, the afternoon breezes carrying the dust raised by the workers sifting debris for small artifacts that the eye might have missed.  We floated, almost hovering for an instant, before the wheels touched down, Boots cutting the engine the exact moment of contact.  We rolled in a deathly silence coming to a bumpy halt a few yards beyond the camp.  An older man dressed as a wannabe archeologist in cargo pants, New Balance trekking boots and a Banana Republic bush jacket with a million pockets shuffled towards us, waving his Gulf War surplus Tilley hat.

So?  How did you like it?  I told you it would be great, wasn't it? Nothing to it.  He reached for my arm mistakenly thinking I had stumbled.  In spite of having kept myself rigid for so long my knees and legs were rubbery.

I was right, wasn't I?  It's an absolute gas.  I told you it would be.  Knew you'd love it.  I can't wait to go up again.  Maybe I'll learn to fly it myself.  What an experience.  There's nothing to it, a few hours of ground school, some theory...What's wrong?

Dad.  Experience is a word that doesn't come close to describing it.

You’re telling me?  It's just fantastic!  Jesus, the man was something else, pushing seventy and still a kid.

"You can take the next ride.  All the next rides.  My ultra light days are over.  Finito!  Thanks but no thanks."

Ah. Sammy, you'll change your mind.  I shook loose from his arm and gave him a look that could freeze the bottle of Evian he was holding.

Oh-oh!  That bad, huh?

Yes, Dad.  You could say that.  I walked over to Boots who was checking out the craft.  He pulled his hand away from the wing as I approached but not before I noticed the two holes in the fabric.

I can go you one better, I said, pointing out the gouge in the tubing.

Yeah?  Well I hate to play one-upmanship with you, but take off your helmet.  He sat down heavily in the dirt.  I collapsed beside him.  There was no mistaking the white gash that stood out against the purple of my helmet.

What...?  What's the matter you two? my father asked.  What's going on?

Chapter 2

First I need a drink. 

He ambled over to the shelter he shared with my father.  Living quarters consisted of smaller versions of the main shelter and theirs was barely large enough for the two of them.  Now that I had crashed their party accommodations were crowded to say the least. As well as the two long folding trestle tables Boots had dozens of those open lattice type plastic crates, holding everything from his laundry, prospector’s picks and hammers, trowels, and several broken pick-ax handles.  The tools I could understand —but the stuffed giraffe?

The team consisted of twenty-eight people, mostly students studying archeology or related subjects.  A few were completing an honors degree but most were in the middle of grad work.  One woman was doing a post doc follow up.  Following up what I had yet to discover.  The support group was made up of anywhere from eight to twelve or so of local people, mostly young boys in their teens and habitual smokers since their birth.  They pulled and hauled, doing the grunt work, and disappeared at the end of the day to join their families camped throughout the region, leading a semi-nomadic existence.  Situated, as we were over two hundred kilometers from the nearest city, Amman, the camp grew bigger every year with Boots determining the necessity for more and more equipment, and anything else that could feed the illusion that they enjoyed most of the comforts of home.

There were numerous Bedouin settlements throughout the area, some permanent with a dozen or so gray cinder block constructions.  Some of the homes were stuccoed in white cement. There was no electricity and no running water.  Actually almost no water –running or otherwise.  These Arabs farmed small irrigated plots, the water delivered to the farms by tanker with a system of black tubing dribbling the precious resource onto the plants.

They also kept some sheep, a donkey or two and several camels.  No homestead was without its own pack of wild dogs.

But these settlements were few and far between, and just as rare and scattered were the tent dwellers, moving with the seasons.  The basket boys were tent dwellers.  They arrived each morning at the site crammed into the back of a pick-up.  Occasionally, to my surprise, a couple of the boys would arrive on the back of a camel.

The camp's living quarters flanked the main shelter and dining area.  This is where our Palestinian cook ruled.  From the large industrial propane stove, and even larger refrigeration unit run by a diesel-fired generator our cook performed culinary miracles.  Like Napoleon's army archeologists run on their stomachs.  I'm not sure our cook made up for the other hardships.

I followed them into our shelter.  Boots took a folding chair from a worktable and placed it so he could face us, my father electing to sit on the end of my cot.

I made a beeline for my stash.  I'm not a big drinker, but five minutes after seeing the camp I knew booze was the only way I'd survive, so I had a standing order with whoever was making the twice-weekly trip into Amman for supplies to bring me back a bottle of whatever.  I wasn't fussy, as long as it was alcohol and not beer.  Seems I wasn't the only one judging by the number of empties that began to accumulate at the dump.  I swear we drank more liquor than water.  A thousand years from now, what would archeologists say about our midden?  The booze helped.  Evenings were, in fact, a lot of fun.

I poured and handed them each a healthy shot of scotch.  My father raised his glass.

L'chaim, he said tossing it back in one swallow.  Jesus.  I gave him a look and he had the audacity to wink, and holding out his glass for a refill.

Nathan.  Tell me.  What has the two of you so spooked?

Well, I uh…

Someone took a couple of shots at us, I said.  Almost shot us down.

"What?  Who shot at you?  What are you talking about?

Boots didn't answer.

Are you sure? he said to me.  Seems everyone in this country carries a gun.

You got that right!  And they go around firing them off with the least provocation.

Like celebrating after the soccer game.  It doesn't mean anything, he waved his hand as if shooting rifles off in public was no worse than spitting on the sidewalk.

Right!  All night long you could hear the shots.  The sky was lit up like the Fourth of July with the tracers.  And what did the papers report the next day?   Over two hundred people were hurt.  Don't tell me this is just some cultural thing.  Jesus! 

Sam's right.  These guys weren't celebrating.  There's no doubt we were the intended target. Show him your helmet.

Help yourself, I pointed to it.

And if that doesn't convince you, check out the tubing and the holes.  Go on, go take a look.  I hitched my thumb in the direction of the Ultralight.

He put the helmet back on the bed, and reached for my hand, patting it gently.  He'd lost a few pounds in the past weeks and his arms were too thin.  There were liver spots on his hands that I hadn't noticed before.

I guess they weren't celebrating.  His tone was so understated that Boots and I both cracked up.

Not funny, Sammy.  He shook his head.

No, Boots agreed.  Not funny at all.

Why anyone would want to shoot at a couple of people cruising around in that… that… contraption!  Now it was a contraption.  Earlier he would have argued it was the best thing since sliced bread.

I’ve been thinking about it.  That site.  There would be no reason for Bedouins or anyone else for that matter to be out there.  According to the maps it's not a stopover.  There's no grazing and certainly no water in the vicinity.  Not even a settlement for miles.  He helped himself to another drink

No.  There has to be something going on there.  And besides.  It was the guy in the truck who had the rifle.  He shot at us.  Not the Bedouins.

That's right! I said.  As a matter of fact didn't one of the Bedouins try to stop him?

I don't know.  I was kinda concentrating on trying to get us the hell out of there.

Well, it looked that way to me.  Why else would the shooter have knocked him away?

I don't know, Sam.  I don't know.

Well, my father said. I want to look at that contraption.  He stopped at the edge of the shelter, a dark shape back lit by the intense light.  That site, he said.  Is it the one you told me about?

The one Andy surveyed, yes.

Well, maybe he was right.

How do you mean?

Well, if it was important.  As a center of worship…

I don't see the connection.

I don't know, Nathan.  I'm just thinking out loud.  But could there be– could there be something that would attract looters?

Looters?  I doubt it.  The only treasure –if that's what you're thinking– would be artifacts of a historical or archeological significance.  It's highly doubtful there’d be anything of material value.  Always a possibility of course, but treasures? That kind of looting would have occurred hundreds of years ago.

Well, I just thought… maybe… 

I wouldn’t rule it out entirely, but it's not very likely.

I guess you're right.  From what I've read most of the tombs that were discovered in Egypt had already long been stripped of anything valuable.

That's true, Gregor.  But…

But what?  I asked.

But…this isn't Egypt.

Egypt or not, I said, The bottom line is we were almost killed.  And I don't really give a damn whether it was looters or treasure hunters or a bunch of the local boys letting off steam.  We should have told Abdul as soon as we touched down.  Where is he anyway?

Abdul left about an hour ago, my father said.  Went to Amman with the supply truck.  Said he had to do some work at the ministry and won't be back for two or three days.

Well, that's great!   He rummaged through a stack of papers and reports on the table.

If you’re looking for your phone, it’s in your shirt pocket.

Thanks, he said and went outside.

Had to leave a voice mail, he said returning.  That it was important, but I didn’t say why.

Well, I guess for the time being there really is nothing we can do.  Apart from hoping those guys don't decide to trail us to our camp.

That site is more than thirty miles from here as the crow flies.  And there is no way they can drive as the crow flies.

No, maybe not.  But they did have camels.

Sam, come on.  You know how long it would take by camel?  Besides they have no idea which direction to go.

I hope you're right, Nathan.

I’m sure of it.  Being followed is one thing we don't have to worry about.

Somehow his words didn't reassure me.

Well, I guess until you hear back from Abdul, there's not much we can do.

" Dad.  There's nothing we can do.  And don't look at me like that."

What?  What am I doing?  How am I looking?  His hair, what was left of it stuck out in gray tufts over his ears.

"I know what you’re thinking. You’re just itching to go up in that… that…Chitty Chitty Bang Bang! Don't even think about going near that contraption."

Okay, okay.  I’m just going to check out the damage.  That’s all.  Relax already, you'd think I had a death wish.  He paused before stepping out into the glare and looked at Boots, who said nothing, doing his best to make himself invisible.

Relax!  If one more person— another man told me to relax…

I know this is really upsetting, Sam, he said when my father was out of earshot.  And to tell the truth I was scared shitless."  He refolded the map he'd been studying and stuck it amongst a jumble of papers in a crate. 

But there’s nothing we can do until I can get in touch with Abdul.  I don't speak Arabic worth a damn so there’s no point contacting the police.  Besides I'd have to get in touch with the Authorities in Amman.  And even if I contacted someone who spoke English well enough, you've no idea what kind of red tape we'd be tangled in.  I don't want to jeopardize my research grant or have my dig permits revoked.  It took a lot of political diplomacy so I could investigate this area.  The least threat of danger, or anything shady we'd be sent packing.

Getting shot at is hardly your fault.

No, but the government certainly won't want to be on the hook if something were to happen.  There'd be a lot of ass covering.  Can you imagine the repercussions?

I guess.  I had no idea archeology was such a political game.

"Better believe it.  What with the Middle East being a powder keg anyway, and the fact that trade in illegal artifacts is almost rife, any dig team allowed to excavate is operating under rather tenuous circumstances. 

  In any case, it doesn't matter who I report this to, they can't get here or do anything before Abdul gets involved.  Besides he's the one in charge, given he's with the Department of Antiquities.  If this does turn out to have anything to do with looting or whatever, he's got ultimate authority.

Makes sense.

I flopped down on my bed to keep the room from spinning.  I'm not what you would call a good drinker, rather prone to throwing up if overdo it. How did I ever get talked into coming to a place where a real toilet was hundreds of kilometers away?

I sat up slowly and poured some bottled water on a soiled tee shirt to wash my face.  The water was warm enough to brew tea.

I think I'll go and help with the pottery washing. Boots paused before exiting.

I think it would be a good idea if we kept this to ourselves for the time being.  You know, just the three of us.

Of course.  No need to alarm the others.  Most of them are kids.

My thinking exactly.

I never felt so alone. 

And it had little to do with being shot at.  Or the lack of running water.

No, the problem wasn't the place or the people.  Grudgingly I have to admit I'm a person who likes to be in control.  And it has taken me years to realize and admit that my own selfish single-mindedness was the main cause of my divorce from Geoff. I want to pull the strings, make decisions, to be the one in control.  I was a million miles away from being in charge and I wasn't enjoying it.  And being so far out of my element I wasn't much of an asset to the team.  Never mind being a cog in the machinery, I could hardly function as a spare part. 

I flipped the blanket over the cord that was strung in front of my sleeping area dividing it from the rest of the room.  I had the dubious good fortune to be the only person enjoying coed accommodations and that blanket afforded my only privacy.  I peeled off my shirt, dropped it on the cot and removed my bra. Using my shirt I dried myself as best I could.  No sooner had I dried under my breasts I was sticky and clammy again.  Men certainly had it easier.  If they had a problem they could strut around with their legs apart.  I thought of Geoff, wondering what he was up to.

The shirt went into the laundry bag and I hunted through my things for the least wrinkled tee shirt, but who was I kidding.  Checking that the curtain was secure I removed my shorts and changed into fresh panties.  The shorts went back on.  With the exception of underwear archeologists seem to wear the same clothes for days at a time.  Hell, underwear too for all I knew.  Or wanted to know.

You could go around in the filthiest clothes and no one commented.  But step outside without your sun block and the whole team descended on you.  Periodically during the morning work sessions someone would remind the group that it was time to 'block-up' or take a drink, but by late afternoon the threat of cancer seemed to have diminished and most of us went around in tee shirts, shorts and sandals.  And in my case, no bra.  At thirty-two, I was older than most of the women here, but reasonably fit.  I swam and jogged several times a week, so packing any extra weight wasn't a problem.  But even though I wasn't suffering from terminal droop it was easy to see that the other women would have found my bras a couple of sizes too big.

I ran a comb through my hair in an attempt to straighten the tangled curls and spritzed myself liberally with perfume.  I was more than a little self conscious about the shortage of water.  Reasonably dry and comfortable, now that I was unfettered, I went to help with the pottery washing.

Mara Semler was the ceramic authority.  And every afternoon she held court behind the dining shelter where the team met to wash and clean the pottery shards recovered from the morning's dig.  Since all our water was trucked to the site it was at a premium to say the least and strict conservation was practiced.  The shards were left soaking in plastic buckets to soften the dirt and accumulated deposits.  With toothbrushes and wooden picks we'd go at the shards vigorously brushing and scraping away centuries of accumulated dirt.  It was a mindless activity that I actually enjoyed, requiring a brush, a pail of water and a happy disposition.  I guess two out three wasn't bad.  It was also a good time to socialize with the rest of the group.

After the shards were cleaned, they were laid out to dry on a long table.  The next day they would be read.  Mara would gather the students and volunteers to discuss and date the pieces, placing them in their historical time frame.  Iron Age.  Late.  Early.  Roman.  See the finger and throwing marks.  Note how the more recent pieces are thinner, the Roman samples less robust than the early Iron Age.  More refined. 

Although this wasn't my idea of a vacation, I had to admit I was learning something.  Only by destroying a site, we were told, could archeologists piece together the fragments of history.  Consequently only reputable archeologists were allowed to dig.  Government regulations were strict, protocols had to be observed.  And of course, to ensure we didn't destroy the sites through negligence, nor smuggle national treasures each dig had a government official keeping a sharp eye on the proceedings.  Abdul was our minder.  But he was also a valuable contributor.  I hadn't been there that long but could already see his subtle influence at work. He didn't hesitate to get down on his knees in the dirt, offering gentle instruction, showing by example when to use a pick, a trowel, or a heavier tool.  Nor did he hesitate to bark harshly in Arabic at the basket boys who took every opportunity to squat on their haunches and smoke cadged cigarettes.

As I approached I could hear laughter and my father's voice as he entertained the group with some outrageous story or silly joke.  And by their reaction it was easy to see how much they adored this gnomish old man.  Of course this only encouraged him and in spite of the fact that he drove me nuts I was pleased.  He loved teasing and goading me, and when he succeeded in getting me into a lather, he’d laugh and tell me to loosen up.

Hi, Dr. Milland.  Mariko was an exchange student from Japan studying soil chemistry and at eighteen, was the youngest member of the team.

Sam, please.  I feel old enough as it is.  Or better yet, I said putting on a serious face, call me Sam, Dr. Milland is my father.

That brought a few laughs, but I was still the second banana.  Walt, a bright young twenty-two year old, wearing a bandanna on his head like a pirate, was furiously scrubbing away at a shard that once might have belonged to a large bowl or urn.

Sam, he said to me.  Sit here.  I want to talk to you.  He up-ended a bucket and patted it with a muddy hand.  Your father was just telling us about your…

'Don't believe a word he tells you.  That man lies like a rug."

Sammy!  Is that any way to speak about your father? 

Sounds a mite disrespectful, if you ask me, Walt said taking his part.  Considering he saved you from a deep embarrassment with the archbishop.

Archbishop…?  What have you been telling them?

Gregor, Walt continued, was telling us about the time you were at a fundraising dinner and you got the hots…

The hots!  I threw a sponge at him.

I didn't say hots, Sammy, I didn't say hots.  The sponge caught him as he jumped up, leaving a muddy splotch on his impeccably pressed Chinos.  Walt too, faced a barrage from the group. 

Sorry, sorry.  I apologize, he said contritely.  He said hit– you were about to hit on the archbishop.

That's just as bad.

Did he really look like Antonio Banderas?  Walt just didn't know when to quit.

I suppose he does.  If you can picture a seventy year old Banderas.  But my father gets a little confused.  I tapped the side of my head and whispered, You know he's no spring chicken… more like an old buzzard.  They objected of course, taking the old buzzard’s part, but I forged ahead.

Dad, you must be thinking about the other bishop.

What other bishop? he said sitting back and twitching his lips.

You know, I prompted but he wouldn't take the bait.

We have this neighbor, I told them.  Not actually a neighbor because he lives across the street and quite a few doors away.  Is that the bishop you mean?  He didn't answer, his lips working a mile a minute.

This neighbor is– how can I put it?  A bit eccentric.

Eccentric!  The man's a certifiable nut case!

Is that a medical opinion, Dr. Milland? Mariko said, cracking everyone up.

This eccentric, I continued, sits, weather permitting of course, sits on his front steps reading his newspaper.  And if weather doesn't permit, he shrouds himself in a purple blanket and wears what looks remarkably like a matching tea cozy on his head.

What? Walt said, You're worse than your father.

Yeah?  Well guess who christened this guy the bishop?

Timing the laughter like an old pro, my father intoned, You have to admit, Sammy, the man does look very ecclesiastical.

But what I want to know, Walt persisted, is did you hit on him or not?

I leaned over and put my hand on his thigh, my breast pressing against his upper arm.

What do you think? I said huskily. 

He colored and shook his head, "You too, are really something.  Should take your act on the road.

Glad to see you’re enjoying yourselves.  Didn't know pottery washing could be such fun.  Mara sauntered over, dropped her cigarette and casually crushed it under the heel of her shoe.  I don't know how she managed to keep herself looking so presentable.  Her camp clothes were clean.  Her shorts and shirts crisp and pressed.  And in spite of the insidious dust her loafers gleamed.  No wonder she hit it off with my father. 

Mara squatted on an up-turned plastic box and started to clean a shard and smiled at my father.  Jesus, if he didn't puff his chest.

Don't scrape. Brush as much of the grime and dirt off the artifact as you can. She demonstrated.

These deposits can be tough to remove and sometimes need more soaking.  Centuries of seasonal rains leach minerals from the soil and coating the pottery. 

She put the piece back into the pail and swished her fingers in the water to clean them.  I gave up trying to stay clean and just wiped my hands on my shorts or tee shirt.  Not Mara.  She fanned her hands in the air to dry them.

Okay, gang.  Make sure each piece remains with its friends, okay?  The contents from your pail–and don’t lose the tag.  The contents of your pail all go into the same bag. That’s the mesh bag.  And don't forget to switch the label from the pail to the bag.  She drilled this home every afternoon. 

She got up still waving her hands. We'll read pottery after dinner.  Seven o'clock sharp.  I'd like to see everyone, especially those of you getting credit for this session.  I resisted the urge to stand up and salute.

Mara nodded and turned towards our tent.  She was a slim woman, of average features but with a rather disproportionately large behind. 

I'll go with you, my father said almost falling in his haste to get up.  I want to ask you some questions about this piece.  Looks like well, I'm not sure… 

Certainly, she answered and held out her hand.  Jesus, Dad.  She's thirty years younger.  I watched the two of them head towards the shelter, heads together studying a dumb piece of broken crockery.  She was taller than him, but not by much.  He was talking away, unconsciously slipping into a pseudo British accent as he did whenever having what he considered an intelligent talk.  In spite of being short he looked remarkably like the actor Ray Milland.  The phony accent was the clincher. 

Walt looked over at me and raised his eyebrows.  Professor Semler can be pretty demanding.  I hoped he was referring to the academic expectations she had of her students.

She certainly knows a lot about the history of pottery.

Oh, yeah.  That she does, that she does.  Walt was not all that impressed with the woman.

Oh, yeah, he repeated.  "Old Mara knows her pots. And her pot," he added softly leaning towards me.

He stretched to his six foot three frame, picked up his mesh bag and headed to the long table where the shards would be laid out for Mara's analysis.  Tall and good looking with wispy blond whiskers struggling to become a beard, Walt had a lot of appeal given his linebacker physique, but at twenty-two he was already married.  Had been for three years.

I went back to work scrubbing at a piece Mara would probably call a diagnostic.  To my untutored eye the piece appeared to be part of a shoulder and rim of a large bowl.  These pieces gave valuable information when properly read or diagnosed, so were considered much more important compared to the thousands of other shards.  And it was quite thin too; compared to the others I'd come across, with parallel grooves, the throwing marks left by the potter’s fingers.  I looked it over carefully, suddenly realizing that centuries had passed since the item had last been handled.  I drifted back in time imagining his shop, the clay, his children running around playing.  How long ago? Two thousand years?  Twenty-five hundred?  The piece as large as my hand was really quite delicate and pinged when I flicked it with a finger.  I could see stacks of his bowls piled in his shop.  Mud.  Water.  Fire.

Sammy, you’re still here?  Can't help it, can you. It’s like time-travel.  Magical.  He sat down.  The others had all left while I'd been daydreaming, but magical or not I longed to be home.  With running water. And a toilet. One that flushed. A week and a half down, three to go.

I put the pieces in the bag then dumped the water into the storage vat.  The dirt would settle and the water recovered, to wash more shards.  Occasionally we had to top up from the huge tank that served the camp.  Everything had to be brought in.  Water.  Food.  Snacks. And of course, booze.  Even Diesel fuel for the generator, not to mention gasoline for Boot's toy.

The scary part was the gasoline.  To my dismay I discovered that the gasoline was stored behind my cot about two feet from my head.  In Jerry cans.  Not those safety containers we use back home.  When I suggested the container be moved further away Boots was aghast.

In the sun! Sam, you got to be kidding. 

That night was the first time in over a week that I was able to get a decent night's sleep.  Fatigue finally overcame my fear of the gasoline bomb, and I managed to sleep a couple of hours before being roused by my father at five AM.  We needed to be working by six at the latest to accomplish anything.  The sun was so powerful, so energy sucking that we shut down the dig by noon or very shortly after.  I was counting the days.  How the others could endure more two months of this was a mystery I didn't want to solve.  And my father?  The tougher the situation, the better he seemed to like it.  I surely had to be his adopted daughter.  He'd already been out here the best part of a month already, arriving with Boots at the start of the season to