The Eden Factor (Kathlyn Trent/Marcus Burton Romance Adventure Series Book 2) (4 page)

"God, I miss having them
with me," she whispered, stroking the dark blond head.

Marcus watched the expression on
her face, knowing how torn she was. He was torn, too, but the realities of life
for them were necessary to face.

"I thought we agreed that
Egypt wasn't a safe place for them," he said quietly.

"It's not," she sighed.
"Maybe I should just forget about angels and Egypt for a while. Maybe I
should just stay home and raise them."

Marcus looked down at Ethan,
reclined against his father's massive legs and sucking on a pacifier he found
on the rug.  He put a hand on the baby's head, dwarfing it.

"If that's what you want,
you know I'm behind you two hundred percent." He couldn't count how many
times they had had this conversation. "But it all comes down to the same
thing, sweetheart; will you truly be happy? Moreover, I have to go back to
Egypt. I don't want the boys there, which means that you will stay here with
them in California. We'll be separated."

Trent was asleep against her
breast. When she tried to move him, he suckled furiously and clung to her.
"I just don't know if I can leave them again," she said softly. There
were tears in her eyes. "I mean, why have them if I didn't have any
intention of raising them? They won't be babies forever and we will have missed
out."

Ethan rolled over, snuggling
against his father and sucking on the red train-shaped pacifier. His eyes were
at half-mast. Marcus shifted so the baby would be more comfortable. "I
know," he stroked the rosy cheek. "I feel the same way you do. But
I've got a commitment to UCPR that I can't ignore, sweetheart. Right now, my
hands are tied."

"You always said you'd
walked away from it if I asked you to."

"Is that what you
want?"

"Maybe. But it's not what
you want. I wouldn't be that selfish."

"There's nothing selfish
about want us to be together as a family."

Kathlyn always got emotion where
her kids and husband were concerned. A tear rolled down her temple as she
watched Trent sleep.

"Maybe we could buy a house
on the Luxor side of the river," she said. "We'll build a security fence,
hire a few guards, and keep the kids enclosed there.  We don't have to worry
about school or anything for a few years. You could still come home to us every
night."

His jaw ticked faintly, like it
always did when he was emotional or thoughtful. "We tried that."

"We had an apartment on the
third floor of an unsecured building. Of course when the twins became mobile,
it grew prohibitive."

He lifted an eyebrow. "So
where do we get the money to build this compound? We used most of our savings
to build this house for my folks."

Kathlyn didn't seem worried.
"I'll get the money from World Geography.  Maybe I'll secure a book deal
about my career; you know I've been thinking about getting an agent. Or maybe I
can get the money from my parents."

"Sweetheart, you haven't
talked to your parents in years."

Kathlyn didn't talk about her
family. She was happy to pretend they didn't exist and it was rare that she
brought them up. Marcus only knew that she came from an extremely wealthy
family that basically cut her off when she went into archaeology as opposed to
the family's law practice. It sounded rather extreme and she'd never really
given him the exact circumstances of the fallout. All he knew was that the
subject of her parents was strictly taboo.

"Well, I can get the money
somehow." True to form, she wouldn't elaborate about her situation with
her family. "People will pay for Kathlyn Trent's name."

"If that's what you want to
do, then that's your choice," Marcus said. "In any event, nothing is
going to get built this season. We still need to deal with the here and
now."

Kathlyn gazed up at him,
contemplation on her face. "The here and now is this; you've got the
biggest dig in the archaeological world right now in the Valley of the Kings.
Your entire team as well as mine is there.  Even if I stay in California with
the boys, you still have eight world-class archaeologists at your
disposal." She smiled wryly. "You really don't need me."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Don't
make it sound so neat. The fact of the matter is that you found that tomb.
You're the driving force behind the entire dig.  For you to leave would be like
ripping both arms off of a healthy body. We could function without you, but it
would be difficult."

He was trying to make her feel
wanted, but he was only making her more confused. "I think the boys need
me more right now."

"I agree."

"But I don't want to be away
from you, Marcus. Or my career."

"Then we've got to make some
hard choices."

She didn't answer. Ethan fell
asleep and Marcus placed him gently beside his brother, both children in
Kathlyn's arms.  He stood up, got her a pillow and a blanket, and tucked her
and the boys in right there on the floor. Lying down beside them, he pulled
them all into his protective embrace and slept there, quite happily, until
morning.

***

It was a scorching day above the
minarets and domed buildings in the heart of Amman. Jordan was an old country,
far older than some of its eastern brethren, yet as young as a little brother
to others. All was relative within the private, precious world of the Middle
East.  The culture was foreign and frightening to outsiders. It was a strange
mixture of mythology and Christianity and Muhammad’s chosen people.

The buildings that housed The
Center for Middle Eastern History were of Moorish design, painted apricot and
gold and located near the center of the city’s main marketing district. A
golden dome, like that on the distant Temple Mount in Jerusalem, sat upon the
administrative building, while the Museum itself, with its many wings darting
off like pieces to a disjointed puzzle, was flat-roofed and ornate. The Center
not only housed great archaeological and other historical treasures dating from
the beginning of recorded Middle Eastern history, it also housed one of the
most sophisticated scientific laboratories in the world.  Not much went on
archaeologically in the Middle East, or the World for that matter, that the
Center wasn’t aware of. It was a prime location for talent and equipment.

The administrative offices were
quiet this weekend day. Security personnel combed the grounds and the curator
for Christian Antiquities was in his office, pouring over some information he
had received the night before. The missive had been delivered to him by one of
the Center’s biblical archaeologists, a young man with a stellar reputation and
a golden touch. The Curator hadn’t even planned on reading the wire from
Baghdad, but curiosity and perhaps the desire to clean off his desk caused him
to peruse the folded yellow paper.

After reading the wire, several
times, he had sent word to the Center’s Director. From that, the Director had
notified the Chairman of the Archaeology department. Just past Midnight, the
four of them had held an astounding meeting. The information alone had been
enough to throw them into fits of argumentative disbelief, but as the night
progressed and morning dawned, it became apparent they had something very
serious to decide.  At daybreak the Center’s Director, the Archaeologist and
the Chairman took a much-needed break. Strong Arabic coffee was calling to
them. But the Director of Christian Antiquities remained in his office,
contemplating the contents of the wire. Even by dawn’s early light, he was
having difficulty grasping it.

The Biblical Archaeologist
reappeared with a small white china cup in his hand and a bottle of mineral
water in the other. He handed the water to the Director.

“Well?” he asked, sipping on his
mud-like coffee. “Anything new in that wire since we all read it?”

He was making a joke, a poor one.
The Curator sighed and put the yellow paper back on his messy desk. “Nothing
new,” he said. “I keep reading it, hoping to glean more information, but only
the same trivial words stare back at me.”

The Archaeologist laughed softly.
“Then the facts remain the same. Zubayr has a holy relic on their hands and they
have called in the Americans to investigate it.”

The Curator threw up his hands.
“That’s what I just don’t understand. Of all people to call in the Americans, I
should think Iraqi villagers would be the very last. With the trade embargos
imposed by the United States crippling them and the bitter feelings as a result
of the Gulf Wars, it simply doesn’t make any sense.”

The Archaeologist stood before
the open window in the Curator’s office, feeling the already-warm morning
breeze against his face. “But it isn’t any American,” he said softly. “It’s
Kathlyn Trent. No one in the field of Biblical Archaeology can touch her; you
know that. And she is close, relatively speaking; in Egypt on her husband’s
dig.” He turned back to the Curator. “We’ve been over this all night. Those
villagers may be fearful and bitter, but they’re not stupid. They knew enough
to call in the best.”

“But you’re the best,” the
Curator snapped softly. “And you’re one of them. Why didn’t they contact us
sooner?”

The Archaeologist picked up the
dispatch, reading it again for the   hundredth time.  Remains of angel found in
Zubayr. Kathlyn Trent has come to verify. Send team to excavate at earliest
time. Hurry!  He set the paper down.

“They’re contacting us now and
they’re asking us to come and excavate,” he said. He sipped his coffee. “I’d
really like to know why Kathlyn hasn’t jumped on this.”

The Curator snorted. “We’ve been
over this too many times. Maybe she knows it’s fraudulent.”

“Then why are you so worked up
about it?”

“Because on the off possibility
it’s not, I want us to be the first to excavate before the Iraqi government
gets their hands on it.”

“But Kathlyn was there first.”

The Curator pooh-poohed him. “You
know the Iraqis will never grant the Americans permission to excavate. They
haven’t a chance, which is why, I suspect, Kathlyn Trent hasn’t ‘jumped’ on
this. She cannot.”

The Chairman entered the room
with his coffee and small cinnamon muffin-like breads with almonds sprinkled on
the top. He was a heavy-set man in his mid-seventies. Sitting heavily on the
big leather couch, he sucked on the bread.

“I see this conversation has not
changed since we left,” he said. “But, providing the conclusions may have changed
is there something more I should know?”

The Curator shook his head.
“Nothing new.”

The Archaeologist set his coffee
down; it was too strong and he didn’t have much of a taste for it. “As I was
saying, the facts and conclusions remain the same.  Even though Kathlyn Trent
has been on site, I’ll gain the necessary permits and excavate this relic
myself. The sooner the better; no telling who else knows about this.”

The Chairman sipped his steaming
drink. “This wire was sent by your cousin, was it not?”

“That is correct.”

“A local official?”

“A tax collector.”

“And you are sure he is
reliable?”

“As I said earlier, I have never
known him to lie.”

The Chairman scratched his head.
“We should really telephone him and find out exactly what he knows. Has he seen
this thing? If not, then who has told him about it? Furthermore, we must find
out what Kathlyn Trent’s association is to this.  If this claim is legitimate,
no doubt she’s gone running straight to World Geography and solicited funds for
a dig.”

“Even if they provide her with
funds, Hashim is right; she’ll never gain the necessary permits,” the
Archaeologist said. “I could, of course, solicit her help on this.  With her
popularity and first-hand knowledge of the relic, it would be very beneficial.”

“You have worked with her before,
have you not?

“On minor digs, twice. She’s
brilliant.”

The Director entered the room,
the last of the three who had gone out for a break to return. But his hands
were empty of food or drink. He looked, in fact, rather haggard and puzzled.  
When he sat down next to the Chairman, it was in a most absent manner as if he
was lost to a world of his own. The other three looked at him strangely.

“Quasiq?” the Curator ventured.
“Is something the matter?”

The Director of The Center for
Middle Eastern History looked up at the three men as if surprised to find them
in the room. He unbuttoned the top of his white dress shirt, loosening it.
“I’ve just received a most peculiar phone call,” he said.

“From whom?”

The Director lifted his hands as
if at a loss.” The Vatican,” he said. “It seems that they have heard of this
angel in Zubayr. They want a representative to accompany us to the site.”

The Curator frowned. “The
Vatican? How in the world did they know about this?”

The Director shook his head. “I
have no way of knowing and they would not say. But it would not be a difficult
thing for someone to have intercepted that wire. Who in the world sends
telegrams anymore? Completely unprotected communication.”