Now Glinn walked slowly and thoughtfully forward, seated himself in one of two 1958-vintage Arne Jacobsen Egg Chairs, and returned his attention to the piece of paper. It was a letter, scrawled with a fountain pen in a confident hand. He re-read the final paragraphs.
There’s nothing else to tell. Dr. Crew never suspected I was acting as your agent—as you’d predicted in the initial briefing, he was more interested in the romantic possibilities than in questioning my background. And while Manuel Garza seemed naturally suspicious of everyone, he never connected me to you. Dr. Crew and I went our separate ways in Cairo. He, not surprisingly, was headed back to his cabin in New Mexico.
We avoided speaking of the subject of Mr. Garza’s death in the Eastern Desert. Without wishing to sound sentimental about it, my own belief is that the man died of heartbreak. He seemed overwhelmed by the rigors of the journey—and, particularly, by the disappointment of finding nothing at the end but broken dreams.
In truth, I have to admit my own role in this failed expedition has left me emotionally and spiritually exhausted. I am going away for a time, perhaps a long time, and will be out of reach even of you. I hope you’ll understand, Uncle, that while I will always be thankful for your guidance and assistance over the years, I don’t believe I will be able to accept any future assignments. Please always remember, though, that wherever I am I will think of you with affection.
The letter was unsigned, but Glinn knew the handwriting well and could mentally add the missing signature: Imogen Blackburn.
Even more slowly, he placed the letter on the cherry-and-glass Noguchi table before him. In addition to furnishing Imogen with a first-class education, Glinn had taught her numerous things not on the Oxford University curriculum: how to obtain a false identity; how to launder money; how to lie successfully under interrogation. When she wanted to, Imogen could be an excellent liar. That is why Glinn was surprised the lies in this letter were so patently false.
What was the reason? Had she fallen for the charming Gideon Crew? But no—Gideon had flown back to Albuquerque alone; Glinn had already checked the manifests. Had she been turned? Yet the individual facts in her letter rang true. Gideon had gone home without baggage. Garza had vanished from the radar; if he wasn’t dead, he might as well be. Yes, the facts rang true—and yet he felt certain the letter, as a whole, was not.
Something had happened out there in the wastes of southern Egypt. If they had reached the location of the Phaistos Disk, which wasn’t even clear, they had at least brought nothing back. But had they actually found something? Had he been deceived? While he was sure the letter was a tissue of lies, he had no idea where its germ of truth might be.
Glinn took in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. As he did so, he was reminded of how much he’d grown used to having a fully functional body again. One that did as it was told. Strange that, after those years of crippling difficulty, he could forget so quickly.
There was something else he had realized, as he’d brooded over—no, that was not quite the correct term—taken stock of his life over the last several weeks. He realized his memory of Sally Britton: the one and only love of his life, the woman he’d lost through his own damnable egotism…had, sadly, begun to fade. Captain Britton deserved far better than to be forgotten, even temporarily, in his delight at regaining use of his limbs.
Here was an ironic twist of fate that Glinn—master of irony—could readily appreciate. Quite by accident, in their successful scheme to distract him into lowering his guard, Gideon Crew and Manuel Garza had rewoken that memory. What Glinn had first believed to be anger at the two for humiliating him was, in reality, anger at his own forgetfulness. Seeing her on that grainy video, hearing her voice again, had driven this forcefully home. Providence had given him a new lease on life: and there was no better way for him to live it than by honoring Sally Britton’s memory and never allowing himself to forget again.
What would she say, were she here now? Let it go, Eli.
Let it go. Gideon Crew: there was nothing Glinn could do that would make a difference to Gideon. Best leave him in peace. Manuel Garza—the man had been his loyal aide-de-camp, both in the military and for over a dozen years in private life. Dead or alive, this insurrection of his was long in coming, and it could be forgiven. And Imogen…Imogen had her own life to live, and Glinn no longer had a right to intrude upon it.
I don’t know much about poetry, but what I know I could share with you. And I could love you, Eli…
Letter in hand, Glinn leaned over toward the one mechanical item he allowed in the room—a micro-cut paper shredder, with a security rating of P-6 as measured by the Deutsches Institut für Normung—and slipped the paper into it. With a whisper, it vanished into confetti.
Then he sat back again. His book of W. H. Auden poems was in the next room, but for the memory that came ghosting up to him now he didn’t need it. It was when he’d first met Sally Britton: in a leafy New Jersey suburb, outside a neat Georgian house. He had been waiting at the curb, and she’d approached him with all the authority, self-discipline, and confidence of the ship captain she was. And she was beautiful. On the spot, Glinn had offered her a job. And in return, she had smiled and quoted Auden. Closing his eyes and leaning back ever so slightly, Glinn’s own lips formed the faintest of smiles as he remembered her words, as vividly now as if she had spoken them that very afternoon:
Two Months Later
AN UNUSUAL HAZE hung over the upper reaches of the Nile; the sun, rising sluggishly in the east, was slow to burn it off and expose the desolate region known as the Hala’ib Triangle. First to be illuminated were the miles of trackless desert sands, stretching to the west. Next, the light reached a slow upwelling of foothills, punctuated by dry washes: auguries of the mountains to come. Next came Gebel Umm itself, its stern peak turned to flame by the sun’s ascent, the fire creeping down rugged flanks.
At last the sun, rising higher still, penetrated the deep green bowl of the hidden valley beyond the mist oasis. Like a curtain lifting, it revealed clusters of tents, flocks of goats, herds of somnolent camels resting beneath groves of trees, and—near the far end of the valley—long lines of irrigated fields: recently turned earth that had been sown with wheat or barley, judging from the green shoots just beginning to sprout from the manure-enriched soil. Moving on, the curtain of light illuminated an escarpment in the center of the valley, then fell on the large tent atop it—dyed a deep yellow, bordered with a geometric design in black—that belonged to the chieftain of the tribe.
At that precise moment, the flap of the tent was thrown open. This appeared to be a signal, because immediately afterward the flaps of all the tents in the village below opened as well and their occupants emerged: some alone, others holding the hands of children, spouses, or aged parents. With a single purpose, they came forward silently until they were gathered below the narrow promontory that jutted, like the bow of a ship, from the escarpment.
When they had gathered, a young woman emerged from the tent. She was tall and slender, with kohl-rimmed eyes, dressed in a simple yet beautiful robe of a flaxen material that shimmered in the light. The crowd, which had begun to murmur among themselves, fell silent. All eyes turned to the dark entrance of the tent.