The Devil's Light

The Devil's Light by Richard North Patterson Page B

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Authors: Richard North Patterson
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that had granted Laura Reynolds her doctorate. Delighted, as Maureen put it, to find herself in the company of an American woman on the right side of menopause, she had appointed herself Laura’s friend. For reasons of her own, Laura concealed how little they had in common.
    Among the dig team, Maureen was a welcome pair of hands, learning as she worked. All the rest but Laura specialized in the Umayyad period, a highlight in the archaeological history of the Arab peoples: experts in pottery, geology, botany, and the reading of script; a photographer and a draftsman; and the director, Dr. Jan Krupanski, a man as good-hearted as he was accomplished. As the newest Ph.D., Laura ran the dig house—the nerve center of the project and the source of its supplies—doubling as a member of the survey team. Given Laura’s interests, the otherwise mundane assignment was a stroke of luck.
    Managing the dig house involved organizing the objects removed from the site while keeping them secure. But among Laura’s other duties was ensuring that the dig was well supplied, requiring drives around the Bekaa Valley and sometimes to Beirut. The job, she had assured Jan Krupanski, was perfect for her.
    Leaving the church, Laura and Maureen drove toward the site. One hand on the wheel, Laura put on her aviator’s sunglasses, a shield against the brightening dawn. “How do you like running the dig house?” Maureen asked.
    Implied in the question, Laura knew, was that she must find it menial. “Pretty well,” Laura answered. “For an archaeologist, I’m restless by nature. Instead of being nailed to the site, I’m getting to know the Bekaa.”
    Turning, Maureen gave her a look of concern so sisterly that Laura fought to repress a smile. “Isn’t this a dangerous place for a woman to travel alone?”
    â€œNot really. As a professional and a Ph.D., I’m mostly perceived as a neuter. Even the fundamentalist guys from Hezbollah don’t object to me, as long as I don’t shake their hand.” Laura’s tone became rueful. “I’vebecome an honorary man. Given my social life, it’s far too easy to maintain the fiction.”
    Arriving at the site, Laura reflected that one use of fiction involved concealing the fictions that lay beneath.
    Two weeks before, Laura had taken Maureen on her first tour of the ruins.
    The others were already dispersing through the site, talking in twos and threes. The searing heat defined their schedule. To stay ahead of it they arrived before sunrise. To lessen its impact, they broke for breakfast and lunch in the shade of canvas tents before taking an afternoon siesta, resuming work in early evening until the light of sunset failed. But for Laura, Anjar at dawn had a pensive beauty.
    Standing with Maureen, she felt no need to explain this. The site stood in eerie but evocative contrast to the distant mass of the Anti-Lebanon Mountains, the territory of smugglers and Hezbollah fighters. Bordering the ruins, stands of pines and cypress and eucalyptus softened their starkness. The marble arches and fluted columns were gray-white in early light; the Great Palace at their center was made of sandstone, its varied colors richening as they watched. At times Laura could hear the whisper of history. The remnants of once-imposing towers rose from the rubble of walls, reminding her that the Umayyad’s fleeting century of dominance, the eighth, had been marked by war and bloodshed. In the foothills beyond was another reminder of the transience of power and the permanence of strife—a graceful mosque of the Shia, whose rise within Lebanon had empowered Hezbollah, helping to fuel the wars with Israel so tragic for so many. The thought made Laura briefly bow her head.
    But Laura’s thoughts were not Maureen’s. In a husky voice, the young woman said, “No photograph could capture this, and no book could describe it. To be here is so

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