Killing Time in Cairo: Cairo Quartet, #1

By Sophia Yah-El

Leslie Leibowitz, a maverick archaeologist with NYC chutzpah, has an uncanny sense for finding relics. She has set her sights on a dig in Hebron, the oldest city in Judea and a likely place for Jesus to have conducted his mission. There she encounters her nemesis, Father Carnaham, a Vatican scholar, on the lookout for artifacts that might contradict the biblical stories of Christ. Leslie senses he's been shuttling potentially embarrassing finds to the Vatican and she intends to stop him.  On a side trip to Cairo she befriends an uncanny Egyptologist who is obsessed with the Goddess Isis. Leslie is convinced that working together they can prove that Jesus in the Bible was a fictionalized archetype. At a train station Leslie meets a girl who has unearthed two Hebraic scrolls on a dig in Afghanistan. They piece together the authentic Jesus who walked the dirt roads of Jerusalem. This mind blowing series of adventures will keep you checking your pulse every ten minutes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Polymorphous Press
• Release date: Apr 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201023737

Book preview

the light shineth NOT in the darkness

A NOVEL

POLYMORPHOUS

This book is a work of fiction! Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales are completely coincidental.

KILLING TIME IN CAIRO

Copyright © 2019 by Sophia Yah-El

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the author’s permission.

VERSES QUOTED FROM the Holy Bible are either from the King James Version or the New International Version.

Quoted material from The Hermetic (Lost wisdom of the Pharaohs) is used with permission from the authors, Tim Freke and Peter Gandy.

Quoted material from Egyptian Paganism by Jocelyn Almond and Keith Seddon is used with permission from Llewellyn Publications, Woodbury, Minnesota.

WARNING:

DO NOT READ THIS BOOK IF YOU BELIEVE IN GOD!

IT WILL CHANGE YOUR BELIEFS FOREVER.

DEDICATED TO LADIES OF WISDOM WHOM

MALE HISTORIANS HAVE IGNORED

KILLING TIME IN CAIRO

SOPHIA YAH-EL

ONE

...His days are like a shadow that passes away.

Psalms 144:4

DR. LESLIE LEIBERWITZ examined a map of an archaeological site in the barren Judean foothills, near Hebron, the oldest city in Israel and the burial place of Sarah, Rachel, and of Abraham. Leslie hiked the perimeter of the thirty-acre compound, surrounded by a ten-foot high chain-link fence with coils of razor wire. She climbed down a wooden ladder into her assigned pit, which had layers of habitation going back thousands of years, one stacked on top of one another.

Ground-penetrating radar had revealed the stone foundation of a first century dwelling. She laid out a grid with a roll of red twine and began removing the packed sand with a shovel and pickaxe. She paused occasionally to sift through a pile of rubble, looking for pottery shards and relics. Hebron had been a vibrant city during the first century and seemed a more logical place for Jesus to have conducted his mission than Jerusalem. But so far, no historical evidence had ever been found that proved Jesus actually existed.

By late afternoon, the heat was intense, and she leaned against the wall of the excavation site, which measured fifteen by twenty-five feet, and sipped tepid water from a plastic bottle. I’m not going to the canteen for a break until I find something significant. As she got down on her knees to pry free a large rock, the shadow of a person passed over the pit. She turned and glanced up at a man in baggy khaki pants peering down at her.

Sorry for the intrusion, he said brusquely. I’m Shimon Cohen from Antiquities, just making the rounds. You must be the newcomer from New York University.

What do ya want? She said in a tough Bronx accent. I don’t like people sneaking up on me.

Sorry I startled you, Dr. Leiberwitz. Shimon tipped his broad brim hat. I wasn’t expecting someone like you, so tall...muscular.

I discombobulate people when they first meet me, she said, taking in the man’s girth. I must look like a Puerto Rican gang member with these tattoos.

I was surprised the head of Antiquities let you work this site alone.

That condition was a non-negotiable condition. She climbed out of the pit. I heard this pit’s been yielding uncharacteristic artifacts. She held out a hand.

Sorry, can’t. He took a step back. You know, umm female contact’s forbidden.

No sweat, I understand. She wiped her hand on the back of her pants. There’s been gossip about Asian objects turning up at this site.

He shrugged. Seems every archaeologist in Israel is searching for evidence to prove Jesus actually walked the streets of Judea.

Well, did my doctoral thesis on Jesus’ missing years. She took off her NY Yankees cap. Some recent finds seem to shed light on....

Shroud of Turin, a hoax, Shimon said with aplomb, carbon dated from the fourteenth century. All those sacred relics the Crusaders supposedly brought back from Jerusalem, the Vera Crus and gold chalices...all fakes. Trust me, not a shred of evidence has ever been found and most likely never will.

What about Jesus’ family tomb—one ossuary had the name Yeshua, one with his mother Miriam, and his brother James?

Those were common names in Judea...thousands of people had them. The evidence connecting Jesus to those ossuaries is tenuous at best.

She put her hands on her hips. Well, I’ve got a premonition I’m gonna to find something earth-shattering.

You think so. He pulled at a side lock dangling near his ear. After hundreds of years of searching all over Israel, archaeologists have turned up zilch.

You don’t know me, Shimon. She climbed back into her pit.

Good luck trying, he said. You all want to make that a great discovery.

Thanks for the encouragement, but I have a sixth sense.   

He squatted down with difficulty. There’s not a single shred of historical evidence, he paused, that Jesus ever existed except for the unsubstantiated testimony in the Gospels...and whoever wrote them never saw Jesus in the flesh, never lived in Judea, or spoke Aramaic, his lingua franca. Even his birth in Bethlehem, is being challenged by world-class scholars. Hate to be a downer, but those are the facts.

She squinted up at him. I’m from the other camp that believes...he did exist...only that the Gospel writer told his story from a Hellenistic point of view. You’ll see, I’m gonna prove you wrong!

"You might think you have an uncanny sense, but there isn’t a single first century historian—not Philo of Alexandra, not Flavius Josephus, not Tacitus, not Pliny of Rome, and not even Suetonius, ever recorded any unusual events or even mentioned Jesus’ crucifixion. The single historical reference to Jesus was in Josephus’ Antiquities of the Jews. And that passage is now known to be a forgery—added centuries later."

She grabbed a trowel and jabbed it into the ground. Don’t lecture me.

There was a distinct metallic clank.

You got something there, he said, with a toothy grin. Probably some coins or a menorah...that’s what been turning up lately.

Leslie dug around the object with a trowel and pried loose a bronze disk, four inches in diameter. My father used to say I have a golden horseshoe up my ass.

You sure have a way with words—be certain to note that level in your log book.

Leslie brushed off the surface dirt with a camelhair brush. Damn, you’re not going to believe this. It’s got a Buddha on it. She flipped it over. "And an Aramaic inscription on the back. I can make out Eloi and Yeshua and a number...."

Let me have a look at that. Slaves wore disks like this with numbers to identify them as the property of Rome. They had scribes scratch spells on the back.

I told you I’m good at finding things, she said, handing him the amulet.

You’re quite a digger—got the shoulders of a coal miner’s daughter. 

Shimon, you should try digging.

That’s not my thing... He stared at the writing for a few moments. The Vatican’s been keeping an eye out for relics that might prove Jesus existed.

The Church has gotten away with murder in acquiring the best artifacts. She climbed out of the pit again. Like Pope Urban gave crusaders a license to kill. She squared his stance. "Before they left to capture Jerusalem from the Muslims, they went through Germany, killing Jews for the Glory of God to hone their fighting skills.

I don’t want to hear what they did to Jewish girls.

Well, Muslims weren’t spared the wrath of Rome either.

He scratched under his beard. The patina’s rather thick. Shimon examined the medallion again. Caravan traders bartered trinkets like this for food and lodging.

Bet the Vatican would pay a small fortune for this. There’s been serious conjecture Jesus’ missing years, from age thirteen to thirty, were spent in Asia.

He folded a handkerchief around the amulet and put it in his pocket. I’ll catalogue this for you.

Hold a sec. Give me that back....She grabbed his shoulder.

His jaw tightened. Get back to your digging. That’s what you’re here for.

Hey Shimon, I want to photograph the inscription so I can get it translated.

I’m in charge here, so watch yourself, he said in a gruff voice.

She wiped beads of sweat off her forehead. Don’t screw with me. I grew up in a New York ghetto. She pushed back her long black hair, revealing her tough profile.

Like I said, I’ll make sure you get credit for the find.

Maybe you didn’t hear me. She leaned into him, standing a head taller. I want to photograph that with a macro lens.

Get back to work now or I’ll have your site put on ice.

She grabbed the crook of his arm. For what?

He yanked his arm free. You’ve got more chutzpah than a cheetah chasing a rhino.

TWO

Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself: I am the Lord.

Leviticus 19:18

ASHLEY SOMMERS, AN archaeologist from Stanford, boarded a Boeing jet and began a twelve thousand mile journey to Afghanistan. After landing in Kabul, she endured a ten-hour bus ride over potholed mountain roads through the infamous Khyber Pass to the town of Bamiyan. Taliban leaders had declared that the 200-foot high Buddha statues carved into the cliffs an abomination to Allah. So the Taliban fired rocket launchers at these 2000 year old wonders of the world for three days, filming the destructive results. 

Ashley wandered around the archaeological compound, familiarizing herself with the isolated region. With her field binoculars, she scanned the numerous small caves above the two hollow cavities where the giant Buddhas once stood. Still drowsy from jetlag, she visited the director of the site’s excavation, a Dr. Roger S. Moss from Oxford University. She found him sitting at a cluttered desk in a trailer, the room exuding a vexing odor of stale pipe tobacco. He looked up from his stack of stained graphs illuminated by a gooseneck lamp. How can I help you?

She pushed back a lock of blonde hair. Hi, I’m Ashley Sommers.

He exhaled a plume of smoke from his pipe. Moss, Roger Moss. I’ve been expecting you. Your resume said you were an adjunct professor of Far Eastern archaeology at Stanford. Why did you leave?

After teaching undergraduates for five years, I became frustrated with the academic pressures.

So you prefer fieldwork.

At least I have an opportunity of making an important discovery.

I wouldn’t count on it. We have to deal with the Taliban and corrupt officials.

Umm. Ashley leaned on his desk. Those caves on the cliff...has anyone ever explored them?

Gray eyes peered out from under bushy eyebrows. They’re off-limits to everyone...including archaeologists.

Taliban sure did a fantastic job of turning these ancient relics into irreparable rubble. She flashed a smile of flawless white teeth. Maybe I could peek inside one of them during off-hours.

I’m afraid not. We’re working under severe conditions. He banged out the ash from his pipe into an ashtray. You’ve been assigned to a site with Francois. He’ll be here in a few days.

Pretty please, she said, blinking her blue eyes. What harm is there if I—

Dr. Sommers, don’t try to sweet talk me. He handed her a folder. You need to review these graphs before you start work.

She glanced at the chart on the wall delineating the dig sites, turned, and stomped out of his office. The next day, she hiked up to the top of the cliff to get a better view of the valley below. She paused for a bird’s eye view of Bamiyan with its rows of planted fields in the background. Bamiyan was a thriving Buddhist community twelve hundred years ago, and had hundreds of beautiful temples. But after the Arab invasion, the gentler Buddhist population capitulated to their fiercer Muslim foes; and Afghanistan went from Buddhist to Muslim virtually overnight.

On her way down the rocky bluff, she peered inside a cave that rocket blasts had exposed. Inside it was a large amphora with wavy black line around its broad belly. Wow, that’s definitely not Buddhist...most likely Middle Eastern origin. As the sun began to set, she descended the narrow path zigzagging across the face of the cliff. She stopped in front of another cave and stooped to look inside. She spied a small silver hand sticking up from the ground. These Brits are such sticklers for rules. No wonder the Afghanis were able to ambush three-hundred thousand of them at the Khyber Pass...just following orders. She got down on her knees and entered the cave. She dug around the foot-long silver rod with her Swiss Army knife. The tarnished little hand had its index finger extended. Hmm. Used to read the Torah so unclean hands would not touch the sacred word of God. She put the relic in the pocket of her old US Army field jacket and hiked down to base camp. I’ll show this to Roger, so he can see for himself those cave should be explored.

THREE

and When the queen of She’ba heard of the fame of Solomon concerning the name of the lord, she came to prove him with hard questions.

The First Book of Kings 10:1

Leslie sat at the rear of the cafeteria, ruminating about King Solomon, who sent his wise men to the four corners of the earth in search of esoteric knowledge. Most of the manuscripts brought back he found banal, except for an old wedding band found in a market that had an inscription engraved on it, And this too shall pass . That laconic phrase, conveyed great wisdom to the despairing.

Leslie spotted Shimon coming from the mess line with a tray piled with food. Mr. Chutzpah glommed my amulet before I even had it dated, she muttered and then smiled at him like a prostitute trying to snag a john. Shim, come sit with me.

He pointed his big red beard at an empty table. I’ve checked your credentials and you’ve done some remarkable research. Couldn’t tell from looking at you.

She moved her chair and sat down next to him. Shimon, be a mensch and let me take a few pictures of the medallion to email a colleague at NYU.

Absolutely not. He squeezed his overstuffed falafel sandwich and took a bite.

That Buddha medallion could have great historical value. She pushed a long black curl behind her ear. Assuming it dates first century.

Dr. Leiberwitz, need I remind you that all artifacts are the property the Israeli Antiquities Authority. You have no God-given right to share them.

Israelis like to grab credit for someone else’s work. Leslie raised her hands in a gesture to strangle him. Well if it wasn’t so important, why did you...?

Because I’m in charge of the site.

I’m not buying your bullshit, she said, like a whore done out of her money.

Your hot temper is sexy.

Well I find your colossal arrogance repulsive.

Maybe you’re not used to taking no for an answer, but anything that’s out of the ordinary is brought to the attention of the Antiquities department.

She took a sip of her coffee. So you’re on the lookout for relics that might be a fly in your schmaltz?

Try this pea soup. It’s the only good thing they serve.

"Choke on pavre noodles." She stuck up a finger.

Pipe down. His eyes narrowed. You act more like a streetwalker than an archaeologist. He emptied a packet of sugar into his coffee. "Doctor Leiberwitz, ever hear the term loshan hora? It means to guard against the evil of the tongue."

I cursed a lot in Catholic school, she said in a little girl’s voice. The nuns would send me to the monsignor’s office. He said my mouth was hell and his penis was the devil and if I want to be a good Catholic, I had to put the devil in hell. I shook my head no, but he slapped my face hard to put the fear of God in me.

Spare me the details, Shimon burped.

This cherubic priest shoved his stubby cock into my mouth—and when it got hard, he moved my head up and down on it. I don’t know the devil spit out hot cream.

Yeah, don’t tell me, you became the best cocksucker in school. Shimon twisted the yarmulke on his balding head. Well, that cure didn’t work. 

Don’t mess with me. She raised a fist. Gimme that back!

For the last time, no. He scratched under his beard. But, come with me to this jazz club in Jerusalem. You’ll love this Moroccan singer who’s performing tonight.

She leaned into his comfort zone and he backed away. During lunch break, I went to the storage shed. I looked in all the wooden boxes with tagged items.

Shimon’s jaw tightened. So....

So, where, did, you, put, that fucken amulet? She said, enunciating each word like a gun moll.

He grinned impishly. I don’t know what you’re....

Try real hard to remember. She wedged her knee against his leg and knocked over his Styrofoam cup of hot coffee.

It’s burning my.... He thrashed about as she dug her nails into his neck like a bird of prey. "You mashuganah."

He howled, and all eyes turned to them.

She positioned her face an inch from his, so her dark almond eyes could penetrate his small baby blues. Try real hard to remember.

"You gholem," he bellowed, as hot coffee dripped onto his lap.

You’re gonna regret this. Her eyes narrowed. I can be a demon.

I remember. Tel Aviv University...I mean Jerusalem, where they have the best equipment for analyzing....

You knew it was an important relic. She walked off in a huff.

FOUR

And the light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

John 1:5

ASHLEY TURNED ON HER flashlight to check the time. It was six-thirty. Getting permission from Roger to explore the caves would be mission impossible. She dressed quickly and walked to the canteen. She got a cup of coffee and smeared some goat cheese on a slice of coarse brown bread. She sniffed it, and rolled her nose. I’ll make a quick detour to the caves before I start work. She sipped the lukewarm coffee and let it leak back into the cup from her mouth. Yuck.

The terrain appeared eerie in the hazy morning light. She hiked up a steep trail to the top of the cliff and glanced inside a cave lit by the rising sun. She saw another pottery urn with the same decorative pattern around its bulging midsection. She scraped the caked dirt around the lid with her pocketknife and pried off the lid. I really shouldn’t be doing this. She tapped the sharply urn with her knife and waited to see if anything would crawl out. Nothing did. She stuck her hand deep inside and pulled out a scroll. She stared at the blacken parchment and brushed off surface debris.

The voice of a security guard yelling down below startled her. She shoved the scroll back in the amphora and put the lid back on. She glanced down at the 200-foot drop below, and started down the steep hairpin trail on unsteady legs. All these imbeciles carry AK-47 rifles and probably shoot first and ask questions later. When she reached the bottom of the cliff, she saw a security guard peeing behind a bush. She looked around and ran past him toward her tent. She went inside her tent, half-expecting to see a guard waiting for her. Her heart jumping like a rat in scalding water, she wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead. What possessed me to do such a stupid thing?

She retied the laces on her work boots and headed to her assigned pit, a ten-minute walk across the green Bamiyan valley. That scroll looked first or second century and might be more revealing than the Dead Sea Scrolls. She climbed down the five steps into the twelve by thirty foot pit. The area to be excavated was marked off by white string. She grabbed a hand pickax and chipped away at rocky soil. After preparing her site for several hours, she picked up a pointed trowel and started working in the northwest corner. The rubber mat she was kneeling on offered little protection from the sharp rocks. After removing several inches of soil, the pain in her knees became excruciating. She sat down on her haunches and sipped tea from her thermos. I’m not cut out for this backbreaking work.

She began sifting through the dirt for coins and telltale shards. Damn, I have blisters on my hands and my shoulders are killing me. She tossed another few shovels of dirt into the framed mesh. God what did I get myself into? She threw down the shovel, climbed out of the pit, and hurried toward her tent to fetch a first aid kit.

A tall Pashtun guard called out in a throaty voice. Hey you, miss.

Her body tensed as he approached. What’s this about? 

The dark bearded man wearing a turban grabbed her arm. Come with me.

What the hell do you think you’re doing? Adrenalin surged through her veins and her hands trembled. These guards could rape me and say I was tempting them.

He pulled her by the arm in the direction of a small command post. You come.

I haven’t finished my work yet. She tried to get free from his gorilla grip. Let go of me. Roger Moss will hear about this abuse.

This way, please.

He dragged her into the desolate command post that smelled like a pauper’s nursing home. A single forty-watt bulb hung from the ceiling.

Where’s doctor Moss? She yelled. I’m answerable only to him.

He’s went to Kabul and won’t be back ‘til late. He lifted the small tarnished pointer from his desk and held it under her nose. This was found under your cot.

Her face blanched and she averted his intimidating eyes. God what did I get myself into?

He went behind his desk and put it in a drawer. I must detain you.

Wait until doctor Moss gets here, she said angrily. She clasped her hands behind her so he couldn’t see them trembling. He’ll fire you for manhandling me.

English very strict about stealing, you know. I must follow orders.

I’m gonna file a formal complaint. She pursed her lips. What’s your name? 

Do as you wish. He pushed her into an eight-foot cell and locked the heavy wooden door that had an iron grill panel. I’m off duty now...replacement comes soon.

You stinking bastard, you can’t do this. I’m a professor.

Looters get shot here and my men spotted you up on that ledge. He walked out of the small office and slammed the outside door.

I hate Muslim countries.

FIVE

Such is the way of an adulterous woman: she eateth and wipeth her mouth, and saith, ‘I have done no wickedness.’

Proverbs 30:20

Tall, tan, and muscular , Leslie could pass for an Arab worker with her aquiline nose. She labored twelve hours a day in the hot sun, digging the hard packed soil with maniacal zeal. The foundation of a first century one-room dwelling slowly emerged, its perimeter delineated by crudely piled stones and a single stone entrance step. That damn amulet had Jesus written all over it...even his name, Yeshua, inscribed in Aramaic. If Shimon was telling the truth, many oriental artifacts have been turning up lately...probably brought to Hebron by travelling caravans from the Far East. But nobody had unearthed an Indian Buddha before now.

She climbed out of her pit to check out the other pits. She walked fifty yards to another site where college interns were sifting through piles of sand and an Arab worker was brushing off debris from a blue faience fertility statue.

"Hey, Salaam Aleichem, Leslie said. Any Asian stuff turn-up here?"

He wiped his face with a plaid scarf. Some bronzes and jades.

Mind if I see them.

Mr. Shimon already collected them.

She hurried back to her pit. Why are so many Asian artifacts being unearthed here? Judea wasn’t exactly a cultural mecca in the then sprawling Roman Empire. The only thing of archaeological significance was the Holy Temple built by Herod the Great. Jews were supposed to be reading the Torah, not Buddhist sutras.

She culled a few silver coins with the faces of Roman emperors and a cracked jade earring from the sieve. Buddhist monks passed through Jerusalem on their way to the Alexandrian Library in Egypt. But some may have remained in Hebron, extolling the philosophy of emptiness to Torah toting Jews...which would’ve been like selling sand to Bedouins. She studied the layout of her pit to target a better spot to dig and noticed black rock next to stone foundation. She crammed a shovel beneath it and nudged it free. Getting down on her knees, she saw the edge of a green vessel. She removed more dirt with a trowel and wiggled it free. With her fingernail, she scratched off the dirt covering Chinese characters, carved vertically down the front. She twisted open the lid and eased out a curled yellowed parchment, as brittle as dried snakeskin.

She squatted in the corner of the pit where she couldn’t be seen, and held it up to the fiery sun. She unrolled the delicate parchment and placed a stone on each corner. She removed her digital camera from her waist pouch and photographed the Aramaic text. This hasn’t seen the light of day in 2000 years. Shimon would give me a thumping if he caught me without gloves. Redheads are so obnoxious.

She translated the crude Aramaic lettering. The world you see is fashioned out of Nothingness. The manifestation of Heaven is the unmolded block of clay. Fill your vessel with Light of the Creator.

Hell, what are the odds of finding a Taoist text written in Aramaic. Leslie gasped. Hellenized Jews were reading Greek and Roman literature. But were they also studying Buddhist sutras? Too bad Nietzsche didn’t get his hands on this before he wrote The Antichrist. God is dead should’ve had a Buddhist citation. Well nihilism was alive and well in Judea before Christ got nailed to the cross. She paused to quiet her edgy mind. What if...Jesus had read these writings? New Age thinkers claim some of his teachings reflected Eastern philosophy and that Christianity began as a pale offshoot of Judaism.

Certain she was onto something big; Leslie’s neurons were firing away. How did this material fall into the hands of Jews? And who translated it into Aramaic? She glanced around the compound. If I hide this in my bra, the guards would spot the bulge...better in my panties where it’ll be safe and warm. She giggled. I can give the jade vessel to Shimon to use as a penholder. Fuck, I hate pilfering stuff, but everything seems to vanish when he gets his paws on it.

A long shadow appeared on the ground. She looked up. What now, Shimon?

Hey, I’d like to apologize, he said contritely. Let me treat you to dinner tonight.

I don’t like being lied to, she said, holding the scroll behind her.

Why would I wrong a nice Jewish girl?

She grabbed her trowel and flung down. I’m not Jewish. I don’t look Jewish and I hate kosher food. I was raised Catholic and just happen to have a fucken Jewish name.

He scratched under his beard. But you act so Jewish...you could’ve fooled me.

Sorry to disappoint, she said tartly. I’m tired of you hitting on me... besides my vagina is shaved and I have tattoos on my ass.

He tapped his watch. Café Morocco at eight. You know the place.

Only if you promise to bring the amulet, she said snappily.

Sorry, no can do. He shook his head and turned to go.

That was a close call. Thank god, he didn’t notice the jade jar.

SIX

For who knoweth what is good for man in this life, all the days of his vain life which he spendeth as a shadow? For who can tell a man what shall be after him under the sun?

Ecleseiastes 6:12

ASHLEY SAT IN THE CORNER of the chilly cell and pondered the Zen parable of the Ox Herder. Getting a free ride on the ox’s tail does not bring one closer to enlightenment. She stood up and peered through the grill in the door. Neither does staring into the sun gives insight into the properties of a photon. These genetic remnants of Genghis Khan are revolting. The only thing these proto-simians fear is Allah. The shack gradually darkened. That idiot guard forgot to turn on the light bulb and I need to pee. She squinted at the nasty looking metal potty in the cell. I’m not peeing in that.

I feel like a lab monkey in a cage with no rights. They can beat me, rape me, and killed me, and call it an accident. She heard unseen things scurrying about. Something nibbled at the ankle of her boot and she kicked it. Oh my god, I hope that wasn’t a rat. Where’s that damn replacement guard, my bladder’s near bursting?  Her knees began to shake and she let out a scream, loud enough to be heard all the way to Kabul. Sobbing, she squatted over the crusty pot with festering urine. I don’t even have toilet paper. How stupid of me, romanticizing archeological research in a third world country?

She heard the sound of footsteps walking on the gravel path and fastened her belt. Let me out of here, she hollered. There was no response and the crunching sound faded away. She looked at the luminescent dial on her watch. Four long anxious hours had vanished into a canopy of darkness. Where’s Roger? Incoherent words dropped from her parched lips.

The thought of grisly guards raping her played over and over in her mind. She felt like a heretic about to be burned at the stake. Her heart began jumping like a hungry flea, she sank down on the cement floor and sobbed. How ironic, Stone Age man created God to deal with his fears, and then Christianity devised the Devil and the Inquisition just to make sure everybody stayed on edge.

She heard voices speaking in a Pashtun dialect. She called out in a tiny hollow voice. Help me, please. I want water. There was no response. She saw someone with a flashlight approaching the shack. She yelled, Roger, is that you?

A stocky Afghani walked in and pulled the chain on the single light socket. He approached the grill in the door and peered at her as if looking at an object of curiosity. 

I need water, she implored. I can’t even swallow.

He slid a finger under his turban and scratched his scalp. Water.

Please, some water, I’m very thirsty.

He tilted his head and spat on the ground. You Americans locked Afghani fighters in cargo containers. Three days—no water, crammed in so tight.

I’m so sorry. I read about that. She felt a sense of dread settled in her marrow.

He wiped grease off his mouth with a soiled handkerchief. Left to die like dogs.

Let me out of here, please. 

They had wives, children, he scowled. My son surrendered to Americans. He thinks they treat him okay.

That’s so awful, she gasped. I would never....

He slid open the dead bolt. They lick sweat off each other’s backs and drank pee. But your people let them die—they were less than human.

She grabbed the sleeve of his stained khaki uniform. I’ll notify my embassy....

He ran a dirty finger under her blonde hair. You pretty.

She pulled away. Don’t you dare touch me.

He licked his lip. You look like Marilyn Monroe? Most beautiful in the world.

Accept and let go, accept and let go, she muttered. 

He went to the desk, poured some stale tea into a dirty glass, and handed it to her. You lucky lady I’m on duty.

Grateful for the drink, she reached for his hand. Thank you.

Don’t thank me—thank merciful Allah. He grabbed her around the waist.

Please don’t. She got a whiff of his foul breath. Kissing an infidel might be his idea of going to heaven. Her legs felt as if they were walking on water.

They do this in American movies. He pressed his lips to hers.

She held her breath, fighting to keep his tongue from entering her mouth.

He gripped her tightly and squeezed her breast. You like?

She tried to pull away. Life’s like a dream: you’re here and then you’re not. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. I want to know where Roger is?

Doctor Moss went to Kabul. Get weekly fix of Bombay gin and Afghani girls.

Her lips formed an amused smile. So that’s what he does for excitement....

Roger banged on the door and entered, puffing a briar pipe. What the hell’s going on here? He ambled toward her on unsteady feet. Why was she put in the brig?

The guard pointed to the silver rod on the desk. Found this in her tent.

"These idiots can’t think for themselves." Roger shot Ashley a caustic glance. Good god, Ashley, you look like crap. Release her at once, man.

SEVEN

And it repented the Lord that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart.

Genesis 6:6

A TOXIC MIX OF BODY odors, fried falafel balls, and stale cooking oil permeated the air. Leslie walked into the canteen, scanning for a familiar face. Archaeology interns crowded around one table, taking a break from the afternoon sun. Hard-faced Arab workers, who did most of the carting of debris, sat together in the back, adding to the cacophony of loud voices. Leslie filled a cup with coffee and sat at a table with Israelis women who had completed their military service, conversing in rapid fire Hebrew. She studied their faces, many of whom had strong Arab features. Perhaps their ancestors had bartered goats for naked slave girls in the ancient markets of Judea. In the Bible they were euphemistically referred to as handmaidens, but were the patriarchs’ concubines. But the DNA of Egyptian slave girls comingled with the wandering Jewish genes. The mixed gene pool was obvious in these women.

She stirred sugar into her black coffee, glancing at a group of guys wearing yarmulkes. It’s amazing that well-educated men still worship a Bronze Age God in the golden Age of Google. She stood up and put her foot on the chair to tie the laces on her boot. Shimon came up from behind and placed his large moist palm on her bare shoulder. She spun around. What the fuck?

Hate to be the bringer of bad news, but you’re been assigned to another site.

Like hell, she snapped. I always finish what I start.

He sat down next to her. The work at your site has been suspended by an orthodox oversight committee.

She pounded her fist on the table. Oversight my ass.

He forced a smile. Israelis consider themselves masters in the field of archaeology and nobody wants to tread on biblical facts.

I’m a senior archaeologist on this dig and I’m not switching sites.

Look, Leslie, I had nothing to do with it, he said. You know the politics here. Some high official in Jerusalem declared your site off-limits. He paused. Many recent finds have repudiated biblical history, and the ultra-orthodox are pressuring unethical archaeologists to retract some of their contentious claims.

Yeah, Orthodox Jews are afraid we might prove Moses never existed, she said unabashedly, which means the Hebrews had no God-given right to Canaan.

He shook his head. That artifact you found could’ve triggered...

Shimon, you hiding something from me?

I apologize for the inconvenience.

She stared into Shimon’s inchoate eyes. "Every scholar worth his salt knows that Moses is a mythic archeotype. Ever read Freud’s Moses and Monotheism?"

Shimon swallowed hard. Well, nobody knows for sure. And for that matter, Jesus probably never existed either—there’s no published historical proof to date.

Well, of the thousands of Egyptian papyri discovered not one ever mentions a mass exodus of Hebrew slaves—and the Pharaohs were avid bean counters. Surely they would’ve recorded six hundred thousand male slaves leaving their country—and that’s not counting all the women and children.

I believe what the Bible says. Shimon tugged his side locks. The Church made an all-out effort to eradicate both the Jerusalem and Babylonian Talmud, which were key to interpreting the Old Testament—knowledge that Jews cherished. So why would they want to burn this huge collections of codified oral commentaries?

Because those books made derogatory references to Jesus.

"The Church went after The Zohar, the Cabbalistic Book of Splendor, which delved into profound religious