That was when Montario had enough and requested an authority from the American Embassy, further stating he no longer had anything to say unless a U.S. consul was present.
“There are nine bodies out there in the desert,” the man with the sparse mustache said, his face stiff and unyielding. “We only want to help your friends.”
Montario leaned forward. “You can’t,” he said. And then he fell back into his pillow, his eyes ceilingward.
The men sat there looking at Montario for what appeared to be hours when, in fact, it was only seconds. Still, they unnerved him as he lay there under their gaze of examination.
Without saying another word the officers rose from their seats, gathered their jackets, and left the room. When they were gone Montario allowed his chest to deflate, the rush of air pouring out of his lungs.
They had nothing and he knew it. They had used every interrogation tactic short of corporeal punishment. And he knew that, too.
Nevertheless, on the following day he could only wonder if they would show up again for another round of finger pointing. They never did. So he considered the matter closed.
The moment he was released, he returned to the Göbekli Tepe dig site to retrieve his gear, which was a backpack filled with dirty T-shirts, dusty shorts, and random notes. Without saying goodbye to Alyssa, who was said to be inside her tent, he left.
No matter how much he wanted to, he could never face her again, knowing that he would have to choke back emotions. He had been able to contain himself in the hospital, had kept himself from looking at her with those doting eyes of his, the way they fawned over someone the way eyes do when they say “I love you.”
Not only did she possess a natural beauty and carry herself with graceful economy, but she also possessed an inner strength that was matched by her desire to succeed at every turn.
But in her eyes he was just Montario, a student aide working his way through NYU. And he knew he would be nothing to her but Montario, the student aide.
As the plane took a turbulent bump, he closed his eyes.
Like a good soldier, she would follow in her father’s footsteps. He knew that. And that is why he wanted to remember her by the way she smiled at him with ruler-straight teeth, or the way she cocked her head when they shared a joke or a memory.
She was a part of the Moore legacy and nothing could change that. She would follow in her father’s footsteps right into the black heart of Eden. “A cold, dark place where things hide themselves in darkness,” he murmured, drawing the attention of the woman sitting next to him.
He opened his eyes and sighed as the plane shuddered along the waves of turbulence.
And then he checked his watch.
New York City was less than two hours away.
By the time Montario arrived at LaGuardia, he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was go home, take a shower, and fall asleep.
After grabbing a cab to his apartment, a twelve-story brick tenement about a mile east of Times Square, Montario paid a marginal tip much to the chagrin of the driver and made his way quickly up the stairwell.
When he opened the door of his apartment, he was greeted with the heated staleness of a residence that had had its windows closed for over a month. Dropping his backpack on the couch, he went to the window and parted the drapes. With his apartment facing west, he cherished the rosy afterglow of sunset beyond the towers of the city’s horizon and smiled.
It was good to be back.
“Welcome home, Mr. Montario.”
The voice was alien to Montario as he twisted around with the action of a startled man, his eyes sizably wide with awe.
Sitting on the couch was a man wearing an expensive suit, one leg crossed over the other in leisure. He raised a hand and patted the air in a gesture for Montario to calm down. “I apologize for the intrusion,” he said. “I simply request a moment of your time.”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
The two men flanking the stranger did not go unnoticed by Montario as he took quick appraisal of their simian-like features, such as their prognathous jaws and sloping brows, thick muscles and broad shoulders. What he didn’t like, however, were their gazes, which were full of chilly resolve and black intentions.
“These are my people,” said the stranger, intercepting Montario’s line of sight. “My aides, shall we say?”
“How do you know my name?”
The stranger looked at him with the clearest blue eyes Montario had ever seen, but they were ice cold in their stare. “Actually, you have me at a disadvantage,” he said, feigning a smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know your first name at all.”
“It’s just Montario.”
The man’s smile flourished. “Like Fabio or Cher or Liberace, huh?”
Montario didn’t answer him.
“Mr. Montario it is, then.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“Mr. Montario,” the man’s voice was no longer affable but rigid, “I don’t think you really want to go there with me, do you?” He raised a hand to indicate his aides, to bring about the advantage of their size. “They won’t let you. And nor will I.”
“What do you want?”
“First, let me introduce myself. My name is Obsidian Hall,” he said with self-importance.
Montario narrowed his eyes, wondering where he had heard that name before. It came to him in a swift flash of enlightenment. Obsidian Hall was a billionaire reputed to be a man of questionable character who often exhibited thin moral fiber by choice, at least according to media sources.
But why is he here and what did he want?
“You have information I need,” he said finally. “And you’re going to give it to me.”
“Me?” Montario pointed to himself. “What could I possibly give you?”
“For starters, I want you to give me the location of Eden.”
The men stared at each other for a long moment in a match of wills.
And then: “You will give me what I want, Mr. Montario.”
“I can’t give you what I don’t know,” he returned.
“You may have told that to the Turkish authorities. But I’m not the Turkish authorities. So you will cooperate.”
“Professor Moore was in complete authority,” he said honestly. “He was adamant about keeping certain information close to his vest for fear of misappropriation.”
“You really want me to believe that you don’t know where Eden is after spending time there?”
“One part of Turkey looks just as much as another. Have you been there?”
“Mr. Montario, I’m a man of little patience. I didn’t get to where I am by believing every man I came in contact with. In fact, I am where I am because I made insignificant people like you give me what I want — freely or otherwise.”
“Otherwise? You mean, as in torture?”
“I prefer to call it experimental interrogation.” Hall leaned back, clasped his hands together, and placed them on his knee while studying Montario. “I’m a man of extreme wealth,” he said. “I have people everywhere. And all I have to do to get whatever I want is to reach into my sizeable wallet and pay them for whatever information I need.” He leaned forward, his blue eyes steely in their appraisal. “And my information regarding you, Mr. Montario, is this: You were very close to the professor and his daughter. So close, in fact, that you were his aide. So for you to stand there and lie to me by pleading ignorance is a foolish tactic to protect Eden. You will tell me everything I need to know.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“Then perhaps I can jog your memory.” He turned to the man closest to Montario and tipped his chin, a command that galvanized the large man to reach into the pocket of his suit and produce a photo. He handed it to Montario and stepped back.