Paradox. Alex Archer

by outside the window beside their table.

      “It is good of you to indulge an old man’s whimsy,” her companion said around a mouthful of grape leaf stuffed with ground lamb and pine nuts. “The fare in the restaurant at the pinnacle, above us, is of higher quality. Or at least greater pretense. But this establishment, I daresay, offers quite acceptable local cuisine.”

      “I’m fine,” she said. “I can get French-style bistro cooking anywhere. Good Turkish food, not so much.” Although I halfway wish we’d stopped at the UFO Café, just on general principles, she thought.

      The restaurant revolved once every hour and a half. It seemed to give Mr. Summer the pleasure a thrill ride gave an addict.

      “I love the toys of our modern era,” he said, green eyes gleaming, as if to confirm her impression.

      “So what’s this vital information you have for me?” Annja asked. Mr. Summer had made light conversation, mostly asking how she found the city and eliciting her views on the city’s historical artifacts. His own knowledge of these seemed beyond encyclopedic; she wished she were able to take advantage of his knowledge. But she sensed that this meeting would be their one and only. She had carefully eaten until her hunger was almost assuaged before bringing up anything potentially controversial.

      “Simply that your expedition poses great danger.”

      She frowned. “To me?”

      “To you and to your companions, yes. To be sure. But also, quite possibly, to the world.”

      Her frown deepened. “Isn’t that overstating things just a bit?”

      He smiled thinly. “I wish I thought I was. For if your employers find what they seek it can be used to start the third—and likely final—world war. All the elements are in place, awaiting only a sign. Do you understand?”

      She took another bite of rice and chewed slowly to give herself time to think. “Maybe,” she said in a neutral tone. “I’m aware there are Christian millenarialists in my country who believe that Jesus Christ is waiting for a particular set of prophesied conditions to come about in order that he can return.”

      “And bring the Armageddon.”

      She shrugged. “That seems to be the general plan.”

      “You realize that certain such people are in what we might call a position to expedite the Last Battle?”

      “Too well, as it happens. Are you telling me my employers are some of those people?”

      “Not necessarily. But regardless of the particulars of their own belief, or their own degree of influence for that matter, if they conclude they have found that which they seek it could be more than sufficient for those who unquestionably do hold such beliefs and power.”

      She sighed and put her fork down. “If I let myself be intimidated out of an expedition,” she said, “what kind of an archaeologist am I?”

      “Spoken like the true heiress to Indiana Jones and Lara Croft,” he said, shaking his head with a sad smile. “Unfortunately, this is not a movie.”

      “I can’t bring myself to accept the argument that there are some things humankind was not meant to know, Mr. Summer. However it’s couched.”

      “There is a certain nobility in your position, Ms. Creed. Even if it arises from a courage born of ignorance. Have you considered what the consequences might be if you learn a truth your employers don’t like—for you and your friends?”

      Anger stabbed through her. She let it pass without grabbing onto it. He seemed to mean well. He was clearly well educated and well-off—like some kind of Middle Eastern magnate, in fact, although he didn’t strike her as Arab or Persian.

      He had a most convincing manner. He also knew way too much. Yet words could never hurt her. Could they?

      “Yes,” she said, more tightly than she intended. “I have. But I’m just not prepared to throw over a commitment, professional and personal, simply because some mystical stranger utters Apocalyptic warnings. Please understand that.”

      He finished his food and laid knife and fork carefully across his plate. “I do,” he said. “I also hope, most urgently, that you will reconsider. You are a most estimable young woman.”

      “Thank you. But I have to tell you it’s highly unlikely. Thank you for the dinner, though. I enjoyed it thoroughly. The company as well as the scenery and the food.”

      He smiled and rose, taking up his hat and coat. “Please give my regards to young Roux and his apprentice Garin.”

      A light went on in Annja’s skull. If that was the proper metaphor for something that felt like a hefty whack with a sledgehammer. Had that garrulous old fart Roux been running his mouth to his poker buddies again? she wondered furiously.

      The man with the silver-brushed red beard was laughing and holding up his hands. “Peace, please. Don’t be so hasty to blame Roux. Although indeed, it’s easy enough to do. I come entirely on my own initiative. And he’s not breathed a hint of your secret to me, although he’s far too enamored of mystery and mumbo jumbo for their own sakes not to drop heavy hints. Unfortunately he’s also so cagey that he never goes further, no matter how drunk one gets him. I will confess I’ve tried.”

      “Then how?”

      “My dear child, when one’s eyes have seen as much as these eyes have, one need see little indeed to discern the truth.”

      He touched his hat. “I bid you good evening, and leave you with my sincere wish that the gods go with you and keep you. I fear you shall need it.”

      He was gone then, disappearing around the curve of the corridor, before Annja had untangled his cryptic statement well enough to notice what else he’d said.

      “Who calls Roux young?” she wondered aloud. She shook her head. “The old dude’s got to be delusional. It’s the only possible explanation.”

      LIKE A LOT OF OLD CITIES Ankara had narrow twisty streets right alongside broad well-traveled thoroughfares, giant skyscrapers rubbing glass-and-steel shoulders with brick tenements and blocks of modest shops. Some of that could be found in the Kavaklidere south of the Sheraton.

      Annja preferred the dimmer backstreets to the bright modern lights. They allowed a more pleasant walk with a degree of solitude. Even if her thoughts were too roiled and dark for her to enjoy walking through the exotic Turkish capital as much as she usually would. She still found it both odd and pleasing that she had these streets, even this particular relatively long and straight uphill stretch, pretty much to herself, when just a few blocks away on Talat Pafla Boulevard the traffic was flowing bumper to bumper and the nightspots were hopping.

      A brisk wind edged with cold like broken glass sent dry leaves from the avenue’s many trees skittering along past Annja’s feet like small frightened animals. Not all the trees were bare; some were evergreen here, too, as in the botanic garden, and most impressive in size. The smell of spices and boiling water was stronger here than the inevitable city-center diesel stink. Floating from somewhere came the faint strains of Turkish music.

      She didn’t know what to make of the aged Mr. Summer. It was tempting to dismiss what he said as nonsense. But there was the fact that he knew Roux. And Garin.

      And also that she was off on a quest to prove the literal truth of the Old Testament, totally against the laws and wishes of their host country. Surreal? The whole damned thing was surreal.

      She trudged up the hill toward the light-encrusted tower of the Sheraton. It was steep here. It didn’t tax her particularly. In fact she was thinking of hitting the hotel’s beautiful and well-equipped exercise room when she got back—maybe take a few laps in the indoor pool afterward. She was wary of jogging on the street under the circumstances; best not to attract undue attention to herself….

      Striding down the hill toward her from the hotel she saw a familiar figure: