He began weaving his way north past the Commonwealth Avenue Mall to the Charles River Esplanade, where he hopped on the Dr. Paul Dudley White Path, a trail named after the Harvard graduate and famous cardiologist. Nate found it fitting that he exercised along a path named after a man who had dedicated his life to heart health. He headed east on the path and when he passed the Hatch Memorial Shell he picked up the pace, enjoying the rush of the cool morning air against his face and the warm blood pumping through his veins. As he jogged next to the still and peaceful river, he mentally rehearsed his presentation.
The legend of the lost city of Ubar had stuck with him ever since that fated night in the JOC a few years ago. There was something about Ahmed’s sincerity that had made Nate believe there might be some truth to the legend. A trade route running through the Rub’ al Khali made sense, other than the fact that it was a desolate and inhospitable area. However, if a city existed that had access to fresh water from a now-dried-up source, it would not only have made a trade route possible but practical. It also would have made the trading post extremely wealthy. If the demand was for faster transit to increase the exchange rate of goods, and the only supply around was one city, then the occupants of that city would have profited immensely. And certainly the legend came from somewhere. Most stories were rooted in truth, no matter how outlandish they might initially sound.
This was the basis for Nate’s research, and he had thrown himselfinto it headfirst. He examined every expedition that had searched for the lost city, every reference made in any publication, no matter how obscure. He had pulled on threads created by St. John Philby and his famous expedition to track the Wabar craters, as well as Bertram Thomas’s experiences charting the Empty Quarter, and even the musings of T. E. Lawrence.
However, there were holes in the theory.No, that wasn’t quite right, he thought. Not holes, but rather gaps in knowledge. Part of this was due to the lack of expeditions launched in the area during modern times. The Saudis had neither the interest nor the motivation to launch such a search, nor were they enthusiastic to allow external entities into the country to conduct an expedition.
Instead, Nate was forced to rely on sources from antiquity. He had maintained contact through email with Ahmed over the years and the Saudi officer had shared his story again, providing Nate with an oral recounting of his tribe’s legends about the area. It was an excellent firsthand account that lent credibility to his claim.
Unfortunately, Nate had been less successful in his correspondence with the Cambridge University Asian and Middle Eastern Studies Department. He knew that Bertram Thomas had written a plethora of notes about his travels, many of which had gone unpublished, and that those notes were stored at the university. Nate had exchanged emails with several members of the department but had yet to obtain scans of the documents. He was extended an invitation to view them in person, but a transatlantic journey had not been in the cards. He’d had neither the time nor the disposable income to undertake such a trip.
The same was true for the writings of St. John Philby. The famous explorer and discoverer of the Wabar craters had written extensively about his expedition, and many of his notes were retained by Oxford University and stored at the Royal Geographical Society in London.There were undoubtedly little nuggets of information that would prove valuable to Nate’s research, and perhaps one day when he had the opportunity to travel to the UK he could stop off and pore through the archives of both explorers.
Nate proceeded up onto Longfellow Bridge and ran west across the Charles River before turning southwest and paralleling the river on the northern shore adjacent to Memorial Drive, all the while turning over in his mind the counterpoints that would likely be used to challenge his thesis. He knew that the examining committee would bring up the city of Shisr in Oman, a discovery with which he was always going to have to contend.
In 1992, a filmmaker named Nicholas Clapp had helped lead a research team in uncovering a Neolithic village in Oman that dated from between 3000 BCE and 100 CE. A key component to unearthing the city was the use of NASA satellites, as well as the space shuttle, to identify ancient camel trails in the desert. The subsequent excavation had uncovered a fortress characterized by eight walls adorned with towers, which the team took to be the Pillars of Iram. It was also theorized that the fortress had fallen into a sinkhole, again matching the legend. The climate was very different thousands of years ago, and evidence of a dried-up riverbed near the city lent further credence to the location being an important trading post and source of water along the ancient frankincense trade route. Some of that water continued to exist today underground and the area contained a number of thriving farms.
Nate admired the discovery and the work put into it and didn’t doubt the findings for a second, other than that it was actually the fabled lost city. Shisr was certainly an important stop along the ancient trade routes; the camel trails and the excavation of the site proved that. And the water that still flowed beneath the sands attested to the site’s importance as a watering hole. But it didn’t satisfy the need for a reststop in the heart of the Empty Quarter and wouldn’t have provided a northward crossing of the desert to reach the ancient cities of Omana and Gerrha. Shisr was a critical part of the trade network to be sure, but in Nate’s mind it didn’t fit the bill. It was an important trading post, but it was not Ubar.
Of course, those researchers didn’t have the evidence Nate had seen, but unfortunately neither did he. Two compelling parts of his theory revolved around LIDAR satellite photos and an ancient coin from a Saudi officer with tribal roots in the region. The issue was that he no longer had access to either. It was military satellites that had taken those images, and they were taken for use in military operations. Even if the JOC hadn’t been destroyed that night, he couldn’t have legally downloaded the classified images for his own use. And he certainly couldn’t now, no longer being in the military and his top-secret clearance having expired.
The other issue was Ahmed’s coin. Nate didn’t have the coin, nor would he be able to acquire such an important heirloom from his friend. It was also not something he would ask of him. Ahmed had been extremely helpful in giving him testimony for his research. Additionally, he had promised to float the idea of an expedition to the Ministry of Culture if the proposed research topic was approved. Nate didn’t wish to strain the relationship and lose rapport by asking for something he knew Ahmed could never give. The photograph Ahmed provided him would have to suffice. And even if he had loaned him the coin, it wouldn’t have mattered. While it was certainly a fascinating artifact and brought to light an important question about the use of coinage in ancient Mesopotamia, the cuneiform was too worn to be deciphered, and there was no documented chain of custody between Ahmed and his relatives and the Al Hadidah area of Saudi Arabia in which the Saudi officer claimed the lost city lay.
Nate slowed his pace as he approached the Massachusetts Institute of Technology campus, a little over the halfway point for his morning runs. He turned to look in the direction he had come and paused to enjoy the view as the sun crested over the eastern skyline and reflected off the water, and he was again reminded of Yemen. He pushed the thought from his mind.
There were gaps in what he could currently provide as evidence, but today’s defense was only an examination of his proposal. Nate would labor to fill those gaps as he began work on his dissertation, hopefully with a sanctioned expedition to Saudi Arabia where he intended to find evidence to substantiate his claim. As far as his thesis went, he felt that it was pretty solid and that he had more than enough circumstantial evidence to combat any concerns launched in his direction.
He turned back toward the southwest and continued running. With the sun at his back and the air slowly warming he quickened his pace, running a route to the west that took him south across Boston University Bridge then east along Storrow Drive back on the southern side of the river. As he ran, Nate passed the buildings that made up his alma mater and, like most mornings, was transported back to his early college years straight out of high school. Things had been much simpler then, and he had been a much different person. Years of constant warfare had transformed his outgoing, carefree attitude to one that was more serious, more somber. Nate knew that, regardless, he wouldn’t have changed any of those experiences. He didn’t lament his choices in life, but rather reflected on them with a cool detachment.
At Massachusetts Avenue he turned south and ran on the sidewalk of the busy street that was beginning to come alive with traffic. He then turned east and continued along the trail of Southwest Corridor Park before reaching Titus Sparrow Park and weaving his way back to his apartment. Nate conducted a few cool-down stretches outside as thestreet was starting to wake up, waving at the occasional neighbor walking past. He knew many by sight and some by name but had not made any significant attempts to establish a meaningful relationship with any of them. He had been distracted by his studies, and remained distant in his personal interactions.
When Nate was finished stretching he headed inside and downed a large glass of water in several swigs. As his heart rate returned to normal he made his way to the bathroom and turned on the shower, giving it time for the hot water to work its way through the old pipes. The familiar groaning noises rang out as the water began to run hot.
Nate peeled off his sweat-soaked running gear and examined himself in the mirror. He was nearing his mid-thirties, though you wouldn’t know it by his high level of fitness. Even though he was one of the older students in the doctoral program, he was easily the most fit. He exercised consistently, a habit that had stayed with him from his days in the army. He ran several days a week, lifted weights, supplemented with cross-training circuits, and even competed at a local mixed martial arts gym.
Physically, he hadn’t lost a step. But his age showed in his eyes. And in his scars. He had been shot three times, two occurring at the same time in Yemen. He’d also taken shrapnel on two separate occasions, which resulted in a few injuries and the stiff scar tissue that came along with them. None showed when he wore pants and short sleeves, which he was grateful for, not wanting to have them become conversation starters. The rare times that the former soldier had shared his experiences, he had instantly regretted it. People spoke to him in soft tones, seemingly attempting not to offend him. There was pity in their eyes and gratefulness in their words, neither of which Nate was looking for.
The shower had heated up enough for him to hop in and wash up. He stood under the stream for a long time, letting the hot water runover his body. So often he had been forced to take cold showers, fast showers, or no showers at all, and it was something he now enjoyed immensely. After twenty minutes, the water began to run cold and Nate stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He walked over to the sink, grabbed a razor, and shaved the stubble off his face, slightly nicking himself on the chin. He winced, less from pain and more from embarrassment that he would be going in today with a cut on his face. In the Special Forces he had not been required to shave often, and it was not something he was particularly good at.
Nate rinsed the shaving cream off his solidly set jaw and ran a comb through his straight brown hair. He kept it longer, as he had done in the Special Forces, with tufts of hair tucked behind his ears and reaching to the base of his neck. Finally, he paused and looked at himself in the mirror, staring into his forest-green eyes. They were hard set. They had seen a lot.
He reminded himself of that as he dressed in a blue Joseph Abboud suit, complemented by a lighter blue patterned tie, a pair of brown leather Samuel Hubbard shoes, and a matching brown belt. Walking over to his nightstand he picked up his Omega Seamaster Planet Ocean 600M diving watch. It had a black face with orange accents and orange numerals, and he switched out the black-and-orange nylon strap for the stainless-steel bracelet he used for formal occasions. Nate had purchased the watch after graduating from the Special Forces Combat Diver Qualification Course, widely considered one of the toughest schools in the army. It had been his present to himself for making it through the rigorous training, and he’d worn it on dozens of dives since, though it paired nicely with a suit and tie as well. It was a finishing touch to his appearance, and he wanted to look sharp today.
Nate walked into the tiny kitchen and turned on an electric kettle before plopping a black tea bag into a mug. His years in the Middle Easthad made him more accustomed to tea than coffee, and he found that he preferred the taste. When the kettle was ready, he poured it over the tea bag and let it steep.
Not only had Nate been to war numerous times, but he had given dozens of briefings to many important people. As an intelligence specialist he had briefed generals, ambassadors, and congressmen, to name a few. Each time he was nervous, and each time he had done well. He’d used the same routine he did today, mentally rehearsing his brief and anticipating the questions his audience would ask. It had never failed him before, and he was sure it wouldn’t now.
Nate slowly sipped the piping-hot brown liquid, feeling the caffeine course through his body. He was ready. Today was going to be a good day.
CHAPTER FOUR
Harvard University
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Nate silently waited, his confidence waning. He had pitched his proposal and now he was waiting for the feedback. The three faculty members he was addressing had listened stoically, scribbling notes as he presented his case. Professor Keith Rogers, his major professor and advisor, had absorbed what he was saying, although none of it was news to him. Nate had worked hand in hand with him over the last several months and had shared his idea for his dissertation from the beginning. Rogers had been generally supportive.
Today he wasn’t so sure that was the case, and the other two committee members seemed less than enthused by his proposal. He expected Rogers would back him up but that it would still be a difficult battle if there was resistance, considering that the head of the department, Dr. Roberta Martinez, was on the committee. It was now Nate’s turn to sit stoically and await the onslaught of criticism. Finally, Dr. Martinez broke the silence.
