Summer Sheikhs. Marguerite Kaye
know, once something is dug up and removed, its provenance can never be discovered. So even if we recover that piece, its historic value is lost.’
‘Of course.’ Archaeologists must know exactly where something is found before it can shed light on history: Desi had learned that in her researches. A jug was just a jug unless you knew what else it was found with, its period, of what civilisation it had formed a part.
‘But theft is not my father’s biggest worry.’
There was something in his tone that caught her attention.
‘Really? What is, then?’
‘The answer is in your hand.’
She thought it was a covert challenge, that he wanted to know if she had any real archaeological interest or understanding. She held up the little statue.
Goddess of love. What did she know about the goddess of love? Worshipped as the one who made animals and land, as well as humans, fertile. Her sexual characteristics painted over by whoever had found it, because now her blatant sexuality was seen not as powerful, but immodest.
‘Oh my God!’ Desi whispered.
Found in a land where to worship the divine in any form but as Allah was blasphemy.
‘Tell me I’m wrong!’ she begged. ‘Is your father afraid that religious fanatics might…Oh, no!’
‘There is a significant risk. My father thinks the site is a city devoted to a love goddess. It could rewrite history. But if the Kaljuks and their supporters here in the Barakat Emirates hear of this find, and learn where it is located, the risk is worse than ordinary theft—they may try to sabotage the site itself. They would want to destroy it completely.’
Desi’s strongest emotion after dismay was exasperation. ‘For God’s sake! Four thousand years before Islam even happened!’
‘They do not care about that.’ Salah slowed the vehicle and turned his head, and his black eyes found hers. ‘That is why, Desi, I ask you if you have any other reason for wanting to visit this dig.’
‘What?’ she asked blankly.
‘If someone has asked you to try to find out what you can about the site my father is digging, you must understand that it is unlikely to be for genuine academic purposes.’
‘What are you trying to say?’ She blinked at him.
His voice was rough now, his eyes probing.
‘I know you are not here for the reason you have given. Do not be the innocent tool of villains, Desi. If someone wants to know about this project, it is because they want to steal our history from us, one way or the other. Tell me who asked you to use your connection with our family in this way.’
She felt as if he had slapped her. She had to open her mouth twice before she could speak.
‘What do you imagine you’re talking about?’ she cried. ‘No one asked me to visit the dig! No one asked me to come here!’
‘This is not the truth, Desi! Tell me their names! Such information can be invaluable to us.’
‘I am not anyone’s tool, innocent or otherwise!’ she cried indignantly. ‘Do you imagine I could be so stupid? Or maybe you think I’m the cheat myself? Is that what you think?’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I told you why!’
He was silent, watching the guarded look come into her eyes. The lie was in her tone; even she could hear it. But she had to glare back at him with the best outrage she could muster.
‘I am not anybody’s tool,’ she insisted, hating the expression on his face, hating the lie she was living. How she wished she could throw the truth at his head.
He said, ‘I will take you to my father, if you insist, Desi. But I tell you now that you will not learn where the site is, even though you see it with your own eyes—the desert does not tell the uninitiated where they are. You will learn no village name. Do you still wish to make the journey?’
‘Of course I do!’ she cried. ‘And I couldn’t care less about knowing the compass coordinates! You can blind-fold me if you want to. That’s not why I want to visit the site. I told you—I had no idea how important it was till you told me the other day. I thought it was just another site. I had no idea I was asking for such a big favour.’
‘My father could not say no.’
‘Well, I’m sorry. I wish I’d known.’
‘And now that you do?’
With every fibre of her being she wanted to say, Forget it! I don’t want anything from you or your father.
But she couldn’t. She said lamely, ‘Well, aren’t we nearly halfway there now?’
He nodded without speaking.
‘Salah, I swear to you I am not here to steal any secrets for anybody.’
He looked at her as if there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to believe her. But when he said, ‘Good,’ she knew he was still doubting.
‘You always did judge me,’ she reminded him bitterly.
‘Not without cause.’
‘Then, as now, the cause was all in your own head.’
He laughed, seemed about to say something, then changed his mind.
For one powerful, compelling moment Desi had the conviction that she should confide everything to Salah—should just tell him, Samiha doesn’t want to marry you, she’s in love with someone else.
She half opened her mouth and closed it again. If she were wrong, she would not be the one to suffer.
Or at least, not more than was already on the cards.
Chapter Thirteen
THAT day was spent crossing the bleakest imaginable desert, emptier than she could ever have dreamed. For miles they saw nothing but sand and rock. No animals, no trees, not even any scrub.
The sun was scorching. The Land Cruiser was air-conditioned, but that did not stop the sun coming through the windows, and setting her skin on fire. Desi had always loved heat, but this was something else. There was no shade anywhere, it was hour after hour of burning sand, till her eyes grew hypnotized and her brain tranced.
She would not protest or complain, because she suspected he was waiting for just that. Nor did she want to give him any excuse for turning back. It’ll be hell on wheels, Desi, Sami had said, but even she could not have foreseen this.
Desi lifted the bottle of water to her lips for the fiftieth time that day, and took a long swig. She’d never drunk so much water in her life.
‘I suppose if we ran out of gas or water out here, we’d be dead in an hour,’ she observed mildly.
‘It would take longer than that. But we will not run out,’ Salah said.
At noon they stopped only briefly to eat and drink. Salah, wearing his desert robe and the headscarf she had learned to call keffiyeh, got out to stretch, but Desi remained in the vehicle. To step outside in this heat would be tantamount to suicide, or at the very least, instant second-degree burn. She had put on shorts and a T-shirt in the nomad camp this morning, and now she was sorry. But it was too much effort to think of changing into something with sleeves.
After only fifteen minutes they were on their way again.
In late afternoon Salah pointed through the windscreen. ‘We’ll camp there,’ he said.
Desi frowned and shaded her eyes till she saw it: a large outcrop of sand-coloured stone ahead. She would not have seen it if he hadn’t pointed it out. The best way to see anything out here was by the shadow it cast, and there was