Nobody talked about it. Mostly, everyone just pretended the guns weren’t there, and Adam understood why. The whole team understood that they were there on the sufferance of the Turks, and they weren’t in a position to object to the conditions the government exposed.
“Mr. Holzer,” the monitor began, “there are certain concerns among the project participants that I feel I must bring to your attention.”
He’d gone to some kind of private school in Istanbul with British instructors. His elocution and the accent of his English made it clear. But unlike his older counterpart, Mr. Avci, Zeybekci didn’t come off as disdainful. He seemed honestly engaged in doing his job.
“Go on,” Adam said, eyeing Feyiz, wondering what he was doing here. The guides were all Kurdish, and the Kurds did not traditionally pal around with Turkish government functionaries.
“I know you’re well aware that there has been certain rumbling among the workers since word began to spread regarding the contents of the particular box—”
“Such delicate phrasing,” Adam said. “Call it a coffin if you want. Everyone knows there’s a corpse in it.”
Zeybekci swallowed. “There are many corpses in the cave, Mr. Holzer. Many bones. You know this one is different, and that its presence makes your staff anxious. You’ve dismissed their unease as superstition for some time, but you’ll find it hard to dismiss if they abandon the project.”
“Abandon? They’ll walk off the job because of a five-thousand-year-old cadaver?”
“They might,” Feyiz confirmed.
Adam met Zeybekci’s gaze. In his mind, an image flickered to life, dredged up from his childhood memories—the tall pendulum clock that had stood in the parlor in his grandmother’s house throughout his childhood. Even now, a trickle of remembered fear made him shiver.
He understood superstition and the power to terrify that could be imbued within an object. At twenty-nine years old, he could still remember the way he had held his breath when his grandmother told the story of the dybbuk that had possessed her father, and the little ritual her mother had performed when the old man had breathed his last, meant to capture the evil spirit and trap it inside that clock.
If we let the dybbuk escape with my father’s spirit, his grandmother had said, his soul will never have peace.
Adam had seen in her eyes that she had believed it entirely, that the belief had consumed her, and it was that—her faith and fear—that had convinced him as a little boy. Seven years old, that winter.
His grandmother had taught him how to wind the clock. Where to find the key, how often it had to be done. If the clock ever stopped, she’d told him… the dybbuk would be free.
And he’d fucking believed her.
It still pissed him off, that he’d fallen for such bullshit. Her fear had infected him, and he refused to allow that to happen again, no matter how many people in the Ark Project had the same sorts of absurd beliefs. He believed in God, wanted to believe in an afterlife, but even if he went along with the idea that the thing in the box was not human, it was dead. Really most sincerely dead, in the parlance of Munchkinland. Did it make him uneasy? Hell, yes. But he wouldn’t be frightened of a dead thing, human or otherwise.
“I understand their concerns,” he said, “but let me play—” He stopped himself before uttering the phrase devil’s advocate. It seemed a bad idea. “The cadaver is so old that until we get a proper study of it, there’s no way to know what caused its deformities. I don’t for a second believe it’s some kind of monster or demon, but for those whose religious or spiritual beliefs suggest otherwise, do they not understand that it’s dead? That it’s been buried in the side of the mountain for—”
“Mr. Holzer, you’re not listening,” Zeybekci said. Normally impossible to ruffle, he was letting his frustration show.
“Adam,” Feyiz began.
“Don’t tell me you believe this shit.”
Feyiz tugged at his beard. “I’ve been doing my best to keep everyone calm. My uncle’s not helping because he half believes it’s a demon himself. Remember, he’s actually seen it. Most of the dig hasn’t. We’re not just talking about Turks or Kurds, either. Don’t make the mistake of thinking we’re a bunch of ignorant savages jumping at shadows—”
“God, Feyiz, when have I ever given you the idea I was the sort of person who’d make assumptions like that?” Adam asked.
“I know that’s not you. But I know enough about Western culture to know there’s some of that hard-wired into all of you. Some of the Americans and British are just as nervous. My point is that I had it mostly under control, but now the whole dig is talking about the woman from the UN taking one look at the cadaver and turning into a lunatic.”
“She’s fine now,” Calliope added from behind the camera.
Adam glanced at her in surprise. She never talked while she was filming. Her piping up like that made him realize just how serious this must really be.
“Now,” Zeybekci echoed. “But many saw her suffering some kind of breakdown, and you can only imagine what that has done to their fears.”
Feyiz thrust his hands into his pockets. “You and Meryam have to talk to them. Better yet, you’ve got to get it out of here as soon as possible.”
“That is our intention,” Adam said.
Something danced at the edge of his vision and he realized it had begun to snow. Lightly, gently swirling, but snow nevertheless. A precursor to the storm to come.
Zeybekci shrugged himself deeper inside his coat and glanced longingly back inside the cave, wanting the relative shelter of the ark. The walls inside. The blankets and portable heaters.
“My government will provide whatever cooperation is necessary to facilitate this,” Zeybekci said. “We would prefer to avoid being made to look foolish.”
Adam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “So you share these fears?”
“Not at all. But if the Karga-Holzer Ark Project becomes an embarrassment, it will affect all parties involved.”
“Look, let me talk to Meryam—”
He saw Calliope shift the camera again, and turned to see his fiancée approaching.
“Talk to Meryam about what?”
Shit. This was not a conversation he wanted to have in front of other people, particularly as on edge as Meryam had been today. She looked tired, deep circles under her eyes. The snow fell around her, quietly beautiful, and Adam had to fight the urge to beg her to abandon the project and fly home with him.
“Our friends here,” he said, “have come to demand that the cadaver be removed from the ark immediately.”
“Not immediately,” Feyiz corrected. “It’s too late today—”
“We’re working on it,” Meryam interrupted. “Believe me, I’d like that thing out of here just as much as you would.”
“It isn’t—”
“As any of you would,” she corrected herself. “But here’s what bothers me. Adam is my partner, but I’m project manager. I can’t escape the idea that you came to him so you could avoid a confrontation with me.”
Adam narrowed his eyes, flushing with irritation. It shouldn’t have bothered him—this was the very same conclusion he’d drawn—but the way she spoke it was as if she shared their impression that he was some kind of lackey. He was nobody’s lackey. He breathed deeply. She knows that, he told himself. It’s not what she means. And yet his teeth were on edge.