Chapter Twenty-Nine
Anastasia sat on the balcony of her cousin’s apartment, sipping a glass of white wine and watching the sun dip low in the sky.
In the distance she could see the Nile, and it calmed her now as it had when she was a child.
It may have been a combination of the river and the wine, but for the first time in days she was feeling relaxed.
She was wearing a pair of cotton shorts and a loose-fitting tank top, and her long dark hair was pulled into a ponytail high on her head.
She stared at her toes with their French-tipped nails that were propped up on the empty chair across from her and reflected on the whirlwind of events that had occurred over the last week.
It had been a few days since she arrived in Cairo, and in that time she had made the rounds seeing her family.
There were the usual lamentations over her leaving Egypt, asking why she didn’t visit more, and why she wasn’t married with children.
Time was running out, her grandmother had warned her, though Anastasia was only thirty.
That was past prime in these parts, although what her family didn’t understand was that in Europe she was right where she should be, focused on her career with plenty of years left to settle down still ahead of her.
In truth, dating had been an infrequent occurrence for her.
There had been many suitors, and several that she had even made efforts to develop a relationship with.
But in the end, they never worked out. Anastasia was too focused on other things.
At first it had been her education, then her career.
While Europe was full of eligible bachelors, it had been hard to find one that met her high standards and at the same time was not an egotistical jerk.
After a while she had simply given up and focused on herself.
Not that her family understood any of this, which is what made seeing them more stressful than anything else.
Eventually, Anastasia had managed to make her way to her cousin Mariam’s home.
She was something of a family outcast as well, being under thirty but also unmarried.
She had a successful career teaching grade school at the American International School in Cairo and had done well enough for herself that she was able to move out of her parents’ house and rent an apartment of her own in the upscale Maadi district, for which Anastasia was currently grateful as it gave her a place of refuge.
She supposed that her cousin looked up to her, a woman who would not be held down by cultural expectations, and the thought made Anastasia smile.
The smile faded as her thoughts drifted to the real reason for her visit.
She’d still received no word from her father, nor had any of her family heard from him.
All Anastasia had to go on was the cryptic email sent by the mysterious Gilbert Richter.
She hoped he would show up tomorrow because she had no idea what she was going to do if he didn’t.
However, she was also slightly concerned, meeting a stranger under such odd circumstances.
Anastasia had contemplated asking one of her relatives to accompany her but thought better of it.
She didn’t want to put her cousin in danger, and didn’t want to send any of her macho male relatives over the top.
The last thing she needed was a gang of angry Egyptian men intimidating this poor European in the middle of one of the busiest markets in the Middle East.
Her thoughts returned to her father, and she found herself wondering where he was and hoping that he was okay.
It was such a bizarre situation she had found herself in.
Anastasia was a scientist, and so was her father.
People like them were not meant to be involved in circumstances such as this.
It made no sense, unless he was into something he shouldn’t have been.
Finishing her glass of wine, she entered the apartment to find the bottle of Obelisk Sauvignon Blanc and poured herself another.
As she was walking back out she paused, went over to her bag, and retrieved her laptop.
Back on the balcony she booted up her computer and opened her email to once again pull up the report her father had sent.
It must have been significant in some way since it was the last thing he’d sent her before disappearing, and she examined the report in depth this time.
Western Michigan University had been tasked with conducting a remote sensing study of the Rub’ al Khali looking for evidence of dried riverbeds.
The assumption was that the rivers still existed today, only deep under the surface, and from the report it seemed they had found several.
Large branches ran north to south, with smaller flows extending east and west.
There appeared to be one branch in particular that was heavily shaded and exceptionally broad.
It must have been an extremely large river several thousand years ago, one that could rival the Nile in some parts.
It broadened further about halfway down the peninsula, ballooning to a range of nearly fifty kilometers across before narrowing again and continuing south. Could this have been a lake?
The report was absolutely fascinating. If even a fraction of what this showed was still present underground it had great potential for the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, perhaps enough to stave off their water crisis.
If her father was on the verge of leading an expedition to find these water sources and plot new wells, where had he gone?
None of it made any sense. This report was not something that would have gotten him into any kind of trouble.
If anything, it would have done precisely the opposite.
Had he gone on the expedition himself? Was he out of reach because he was wandering the Saudi desert searching for water sources that could help the people? That would be just like her father. He had a heart of gold. It was something she’d always loved about him.
Maybe that was what Richter wanted to talk to her about.
Perhaps her father had gotten into some type of trouble out in the desert.
After all, the Arabian Peninsula could be an inhospitable place.
He could have been stranded, lost, or robbed.
There were multiple possibilities. But why had he not told her he was leaving?
It could have been a secret, but then why would he have sent her the report?
She closed the laptop in frustration. While the report was fascinating from a hydrological perspective, it didn’t get her any closer to finding her father.
Her only hope now was that this Richter individual would have some useful information.
She tapped her foot against the stone floor and clutched her wineglass in both hands.
The sun had set and obscured her view of the river, and with it, her anxiety returned.
“Well?” Wally asked impatiently.
“Hang on,” Nate answered, clicking away at the keyboard. “This is science, not magic.”
Since returning from his meeting with Ahmed, he had been meticulously plotting the ancient camel trails onto his ArcGIS file, overlaying them with the information he had already collected.
Fortunately, several spots had been marked with latitude and longitude coordinates, so he was able to approximate routes based off the points regardless of the size and the low print quality of the documents.
He started to draw the trails in present-day northwestern Oman within half a mile of where Bertram Thomas had recorded his approximate location on the day his guide had pointed out the trails as the road to Ubar.
They also appeared to travel at an azimuth that was roughly 325 degrees.
So far, so good. As Nate plotted, the trail continued up in the direction of Al Hadidah and the Wabar craters, which was all in line with what he expected.
The problem was singling out a specific point along the trail that could be the resting place of the buried city.
The camel trails routed north and passed to the east of Wabar.
But there was something out of the ordinary.
More faint than the rest of the well-worn ancient pathways, a branch of the trails appeared to jut out to the west heading toward Al Hadidah.
It was difficult to make out, but it was definitely there.
It traveled for a distance and didn’t end so much as it appeared to fade away, seeming to branch out for nearly forty miles before it did so.
Nate did a quick scan of the rest of the tracks. Nowhere else did the trail follow such a pattern. It ran straight from Oman up through the Empty Quarter and split in the north to travel to Doha or Riyadh. This was the only branch that deviated. That had to be it.
Next, he added in the routes of Bertram Thomas and St. John Philby, as recorded in the notes he had found.
While Philby made no use of the trail, Thomas appeared to be practically standing on it when his guide provided him directions to Ubar, and it seemed he traveled on it for several portions of his journey.
“Alright, here it is,” he said finally to an impatient Wally, who was pacing behind him, and a more relaxed Shane, who was sitting on the couch watching Arabic TV. They both walked over to peer at the screen.
“I’m going to need a little help here, bro,” Shane said. “What are we looking at?”
“This line here represents the ancient camel trails from the LIDAR imagery provided by Ahmed,” he said, pointing at the line he had just created.
“You can see the deviation to the west. It’s not as pronounced as the rest of the trail system, but it’s definitely there.
There’s only one reason a trade caravan would have deviated that far off the established path. ”
“Ubar?” Wally asked.
“Maybe,” Nate replied.
“Maybe?” Shane asked.
“It’s complicated. Keep in mind, there’s very little life out in that desert, at least what we consider to be life.
The one thing that would make a caravan travel forty miles out and forty miles back is water, so there must have been a considerable amount of water there.
We’re not talking about your average well; it would have been something much, much bigger.
And if there was that much water, a trading post certainly could have sprung up in the area. ”
“And I’ll bet being the only stop for hundreds of miles would have made it one hell of a tourist destination,” Shane said.
“Precisely. Such a place would have had the monopoly on rest stops. Caravans coming and going would have made their way there to rest, water their camels, and trade. It would have meant massive amounts of commerce and made the city incredibly wealthy.”
“Ubar,” Wally said again, this time more definitively.
“Ubar,” Nate agreed.
“So where does the road stop?” Shane asked.
“That’s the tricky part. It’s not definitive, you can see here on the imagery.” He held the papers up. “It simply fades out instead of coming to a hard stop.”
“So we don’t really know,” Wally said.
“Not exactly. But it narrows down the search area. This trail gives us latitude. We know the resting place of the city likely lies somewhere on or near this line, but we can’t determine exactly where.
The longitude is impossible to tell. We have the coordinates for Philby’s well, and a rough idea of where Thomas’s Bedouins plucked trinkets out of another well, but no idea which direction the underground water sources flow or where they might branch.
The answer is more than likely in Metry’s report. ”
“The water report?” Shane asked.
“Right. There’s a water system that runs throughout the area.
Ancient underground rivers. We know they are out there, and we know they branch off deep underground.
The biggest, most abundant river that runs under the area should intersect with the latitude of the camel trails, and maybe even bisect with Philby’s or Thomas’s well.
And at that point…” He left the conclusion open.
“Ubar,” Wally said for a third time.
“Yes, Wally.” Nate smiled. “Ubar.”
“Well hot damn,” Shane said, clapping his hands together. “Our transportation is all set. We have a plan. Guess the only thing left to do is to make sure this Egyptian smokeshow isn’t murdered in the next twenty-four hours.”
In his excitement over the imagery provided by Ahmed, Nate had temporarily forgotten about the more pressing issue of Anastasia’s meeting and the potential danger she faced.
“Right,” Nate said, putting his research aside. “We’d better come up with a plan for that sooner rather than later.”