Marshlands by Matthew Olshan

gossamer mesh that iridesces like a locust’s wing. I’m forced to avert my eyes when the desert wind lifts it to the sun.
    The general is out riding, which gives me a chance to cool off in the cavernous waiting area outside his office. It’s rumored that virtually every room of the palace, which was built atop the ruins of an ancient ziggurat, was used, at one time or another, by the torturers of the old regime. One imagines cries of agony echoing down the polished corridors.
    When I’m summoned, at long last, into the general’s office, I find a familiar face.
    â€œAdministrator,” he says, pressing my arm.
    â€œIs that Curtis?”
    â€œ General Curtis,” he says, tapping the star on his collar. The uniform is new to me; black and severe, the sleeves embroidered with the blazon of Protective Services. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Have a seat. Tell me, has it really been ten years?”
    He retreats behind the immaculate sandstone desk. His wavy blond hair is neatly trimmed—although longer than it should be, for a stickler for the rules—and the beard is gone, but he’s just as vital as I remember. If anything, with his cheeks flushed from the exertions of the ride, and his face a bit fuller, he looks even younger than before. I, on the other hand, feel like a tired old man. “Forgive the impromptu visit,” I say.
    Curtis smiles and repeats the word “impromptu,” shaking his head. “One forgets there are educated men out here,” he says.
    As I explain my purpose, he tries to give the impression that his attention is fully focused, but he can’t resist polishing his high leather boots with a thumb, which he surreptitiously wets from time to time.
    â€œAn unhappy story,” he says, “although I’m not sure I buy it. It’s highly unlikely a random corpse would have found its way to our morgue. But you’re welcome to have a look.” He reaches for the intercom, then thinks the better of it. “Actually, I’ll take you down myself,” he says. “There’s something I want you to see.”
    A lurching service elevator delivers us to the bowels of the palace, where Curtis leads me through a warren of utility tunnels. It’s a struggle to keep up with his energetic strides. In the hope of slowing him down a little, I offer my congratulations.
    â€œWhat for?” he says.
    â€œYour promotion. This posting.”
    Curtis tilts his head, listening for irony in my voice. “Frankly,” he says, “I was surprised to hear you’re still camping on the border after all these years. A man of your talents, with those incredible language skills.”
    â€œI like running a field hospital. It makes me feel useful.”
    â€œReally, Gus,” he says, as if we’re old friends, “it’s a waste of you.”
    Then he stops in front of a pair of steel doors. “Well, here we are.”
    â€œThe morgue?” I ask, but he merely smiles and opens a door for me.
    I hesitate at the threshold. The air is wet and musty. It’s pitch-black inside, but there’s a sense of vast space, as if the doorway gives out on a canyon.
    â€œThe lights are just … here,” he says, throwing a lever. Arc lamps, some of them at a great distance, slowly start to blaze, illuminating a massive stone ruin at our feet.
    â€œMy predecessor was excavating for a weapons bunker when the ground under one of the earthmovers gave way. That was how they found the first chamber. Took the better part of six months to clean the whole thing out.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œGuess,” he says.
    The intricate foundation reminds me of a picture from one of my old schoolbooks. “Steam tunnels, perhaps for the royal baths?”
    â€œGood guess! A very good guess. But no. It’s a labyrinth.”
    â€œA labyrinth? Here? Can we take a closer look?”
    Curtis nods indulgently and