Knock Three Times

37

                BLISTERING HEAT RIPPLED OVER over the thick, hefty stones that lined the riverbank, the desert sun merciless to the ill prepared. The archeological dig had been a topic of controversy for the locals, and many of the more superstitious of the population. Along the curving flow of the river which spanned fourteen miles wide, a shallow part of the bank had been sandbagged, a section of the ancient Euphrates drained in light of discovery, and nearby a canvas tent provided much needed shade.

    Within, a young man stood before a table, staring at a map as tools of measurement were grouped around the spot marked Al Amiriya. Abraham had been studying the area for many years, his extensive studies and thirst for ancient knowledge like an itch that could never be scratched to satisfaction, only temporarily with each discovery. Beyond the workspace was his sleeping quarters, where an old couch and a military grade cot served as his nightly oasis, and upon a bedside table was a small picture frame.

    Each night, before he lay his head to rest he gazed upon the happy moment, caught with the flash of a camera that happy Christmas morning. He held his daughter in his arms as they sat upon their living room sofa, her wavy auburn hair and fair complexion mimicking her mother who sat with her head nestled against his shoulder. On the floor before their festive tree was a small boy, slightly older than his sister. His eyes were wide with wonder and amazement as he held a leather telescope, a rite of passage for every McKinnon boy, as was the tradition in their scholarly lineage. Every one of them was an explorer of some sort, their heritage dating back to the first Spanish conquistadors who set foot on American soil, Brazil, the Portuguese Azores, and everywhere else you could imagine, long before civilization was ever recorded with any sort of accuracy.

    Urielle was the affectionate type, always preferring the value of family bonds over material gifts. In this particular memory, she hadn't yet opened her presents, and she wasn't quite finished loving her father—ever daddy's little girl. William, however, was more like his old man, the thrill of mystery insatiable and relentless, the thought of not knowing what was inside the wrapped boxed unbearable. Every night he would look upon this happy moment, a reminder of just how proud he was to see his only son marvel in his gift, like Abraham once had at his age. He often imagined the adventures that would ensue after William graduated, and the father-son team could travel the world, investigating important archeological digs, unearthing ancient civilizations, or treasure hunting in the deepest and most feared caverns.

    'One day.' he would state as he kissed the glass surface of the frame each night.

    Abraham was cursed with a relentless curiosity. Though he missed his family, and his quaint and somewhat luxurious home in Saratoga Springs, but the pull of discovery was just too strong.

    'Dr. McKinnon?' a young woman poked her covered head into the tent, a student of the young professor who seemed equally enthusiastic. He had heard the voices approaching, expecting her report at anytime.

    'I trust we are clear to proceed?'

    'The water level is at walking depths, if you are ready; hope you're not afraid of getting wet.'

    'Not remotely, my dear.' he gestured to his rubber coveralls and boots, well prepared as the moment he had been waiting for these many years had finally arrived. Abraham gathered his waterproof flashlight and oil lamp, and then stepped out of the tent. As he felt the wave of blistering heat upon his face, he quickly retrieved his panama hat, the excitement of the moment distracting, but as he stepped back out into the desert sun his shoulders slumped.

    'What in Heaven's name is he doing here?' the question came with a scowl as the group of hired labourers parted before a tanned army jeep. A man quite older than himself stepped forward, a headscarf wrapped around designer spectacles and a smug expression upon a peppered beard. The light fabric that was traditionally considered Islamic garb served as further protection from the sun's merciless rays remained opened at the chest, just enough to display a white collar within a black shirt. 'Who let him in?'