He was thankful that he had been partially spared from those horrific events. Even though the majority of his extended family still resided in Cairo, his wife had passed some years ago, and his daughter was fully grown and lived in Europe. He himself had been with the U.N. for over twenty years and had moved around throughout the region, landing in Bahrain five years ago.
Manama was a fancy city, and his pay was adequate enough to afforda one-bedroom apartment and live in relative comfort, so he had little to complain about. Money aside, Metry genuinely enjoyed his work. The Middle East was the cradle of civilization, and there was more history here than would ever be rediscovered. The people were diverse, with rich and distinct cultures spread all across the region, and Metry wanted to see the area not only survive, but flourish. And while the discovery of massive oil fields in the twentieth century had helped many of the countries that comprised the Middle East do just that, he knew it wouldn’t last.
Times were changing. Climate change was a focal issue for the global community. Many governments and businesses were making efforts to transition to green energy, and regardless the oil would run out eventually, meaning it was only a matter of time before the oil-producing countries were left in the dust. That is why countries like Bahrain and the United Arab Emirates had made such efforts to create a tourism industry that would survive a green revolution.
But there was a deeper issue at hand that many in the West did not consider. The region was rapidly running out of fresh water. Particularly Saudi Arabia, whose water consumption per capita was twice the world average, yet had limited freshwater resources to draw from. It was a growing problem, and one that the government recognized as well. That was his focus and what he had been working so hard on lately.
Months ago, Metry had begun coordinating with a German man named Gilbert Richter from the Secretariat of the United Nations Convention to Combat Desertification based out of Bonn, Germany. Richter had been able to pull some strings and connect with a colleague at Western Michigan University who worked in the geological and environmental sciences department. Metry secured a grant for the university, and they had conducted remote sensing of the Rub’ al Khali, looking specifically at hydrological data, including surface runoff andgroundwater flow. They did so by using ground-penetrating radar. In truth, Metry didn’t understand a lot of it, but he knew the results were very convincing.
Richter had sent them to Metry, and there was considerable evidence of underwater springs and rivers running throughout the region. Metry’s hope had been that he could lead a team on a survey of the area, as the discovery of additional underground water sources would be phenomenal on several levels. His stock would certainly rise within the U.N., likely earning him a promotion. He also had no doubt that the Saudi government would be grateful, a connection that could come in handy down the road.
Metry had written his daughter in Copenhagen to tell her the good news. She took after both him and her mother and worked in the sciences as a geologist for the European Union. He was certain she would find the study interesting, and sent her a digital copy to get her opinion on the matter. Secretly, he also hoped she would be proud of herbabafor such an accomplishment.
That initial excitement faded though when he was informed that the funding didn’t exist within the budget for such an expedition. Metry had already applied for a permit through the Saudi Geological Survey and begun planning the trip. Though devastated by the news, he was unwilling to just give up and had begun exploring if the Saudi government would be willing to cover the expense, when a solution fell into his lap.
Two days ago, word funneled down to him that a wealthy donor had approached the U.N. The man sounded like an idealist and a philanthropist who was looking to put his acquired wealth to good use. This wasn’t out of the ordinary, and there were many billionaires, mostly from Western nations, that occasionally gave large contributions to U.N. work around the world. It was simply fortuitous that this individual was interested in preserving the indigenous peoples of theArabian Peninsula and felt that exploring new water sources was the best way to do that.
Metry looked down at his Seiko Presage watch, a gift from his daughter, and felt a moment of panic. He had just been writing an email to Richter telling him the good news, but had lost track of time, and was set to meet the donor in twenty minutes at the Four Seasons. While it was not far away, traffic could be unpredictable on the island, and he absolutely did not want to be late. He hurriedly finished the email and sent it, then logged off his laptop and stuffed it in his briefcase before scrambling for the door.
He hopped down the stairs, taking some two at a time. Punctuality was critical, as everything rode on his making a good impression. Metry ran to the street and hailed a cab, offering extra money for a speedy trip. The taxi first turned onto a side street, and then the main road that led to the seafront area of the island where the Four Seasons was located. Driving perhaps faster than he should have been, the driver reached the Bahrain Bay beach area and turned off onto the long road that led to the hotel.
The Four Seasons stood before him, regal and intimidating in its appearance as it shot straight up into the sky, two golden pillars with glass boxes suspended between them. It was the focal point of the small island over which it towered. On his salary, Metry could never afford to stay here. In the meantime, he enjoyed the opportunity to experience the hotel as a guest. It made him feel important and added an extra layer of prestige to the expedition that he would launch with the funding this meeting provided.
The taxi pulled up to the front of the hotel and Metry jumped out and entered the building. The donor’s assistant had said on the phone to just head up to the presidential suite and had given him the room number, so he bypassed the service desk and headed to the elevators.He pressed the appropriate button and waited as the elevator car rose swiftly toward the top floors.
Looking at his reflection in the mirrored surface of the wall, he straightened his tie and flattened his hair. Metry was average height with a slender build. He was never much one for athletics, and his arms and legs were lean while his midsection was larger than he would have preferred. He had possessed perfect eyesight most of his life, but in his later years had begun to require the use of glasses, which he also straightened on his face. Behind the spectacles, dark brown eyes looked back at him with a friendly gaze, set above a neatly trimmed mustache.
When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, he proceeded down the hall to the door with the correct room number. Metry checked his watch and breathed a sigh of relief. He had made it with two minutes to spare. The U.N. representative straightened his collar, pulled on the lapels of his suit coat, and knocked.
The door opened and bright light flooded across the threshold, temporarily blinding him. When he could see clearly, Metry was instantly taken aback by the majesty of the suite. It was so open and spacious, and the views of the city out the wall-length windows were spectacular. It appeared as if someone had taken a small royal palace and placed it atop a skyscraper. As he soaked it all in, Metry’s eyes were suddenly drawn to the man who had opened the door.
He was about average height but appeared very broad. His head was shaved and his complexion was fair, though seemed slightly red, as if he was not yet accustomed to the harsh sun of the tiny island nation. He was impeccably dressed in a very expensive-looking suit, and he had a smile on his face, though his ice-blue eyes appeared cold and judging.
“Please, come in,” the man said in a slightly accented voice. Metry tried to identify it, but could determine only that it sounded Eastern European, perhaps Russian.
“Thank you, sir,” Metry replied. He walked in, suddenly wondering if this was the donor or perhaps just his assistant. He couldn’t see a rich and powerful man opening his own door, but then again stranger things had happened. He turned around to face the man and see if he could determine with whom he was speaking.
“Mr. Metry, I presume?” the man asked. He kept his hands clasped behind his back and didn’t attempt a handshake, which made Metry think he must be the help.
“I am,” Metry replied, not wanting to ask and seem impolite. He decided he would just treat this man with the utmost respect and go along for the ride. In time the truth would be revealed. Or so he thought.
“Please.” The man extended an open hand toward the entertainment area of the suite, which consisted of several sofas and plush chairs arranged around a coffee table. It overlooked the man-made bay and the city beyond.
“Thank you.” Metry turned and began to walk toward the sunken seating area, now certain that this was the servant. He was wrong. The man was not the servant, nor the donor. But he would never know that.
As soon as Metry’s gaze left the man, he briefly felt a great force strike him on the back of his head. And then everything went black.
CHAPTER SIX
Boston
Nate covered his face with his hands to protect himself from gloved fists that rained down on him. He had gotten himself into this position by being distracted, and there was no one to blame but himself for his current predicament.
The dissertation proposal had not gone well. After being dismissed, he was eventually summoned back to the room to be told that, while his ideas were intriguing, there was not enough evidence in his research to warrant the fieldwork, and that getting approval to conduct further research in Saudi Arabia was doubtful. The Ministry of Culture was unlikely to grant permission, particularly given that the war in Yemen was spilling over the border, and it was better to find a new proposal and return in a few weeks. Nate thanked the panel for their time, stood, and left. While Professor Rogers likely had wanted to talk, Nate wasn’t sure he could stomach the man at the moment, so he exited the building without waiting for him.
After the failure of the day, he had needed to blow off some steam, so Nate headed straight for the mixed martial arts gym that he had beenattending. Even though the Special Forces had taught him hand-to-hand combat, he still sought to improve his skills. Back on the team he had trained regularly with Shane Price, who was a former UFC fighter. After he had left the army and enrolled at Harvard, it had taken about six months before he started getting antsy. He found the gym and had been attending several times a week ever since.
While Nate originally had intended to get out the frustrations from today and clear his mind sparring on the mats, he instead found himself distracted. The rejection of his hard efforts, including years of independent research, was a crushing blow. Of course, the easy answer was to pick a new topic and start over again, but Nate couldn’t see himself doing that. He had a personal connection to the search for Ubar, and he wasn’t sure he was willing to just give that up. Instead, he was seriously considering doubling down and doing it anyway. It was high risk, but also high reward. If he could find compelling evidence to prove his theory, then the anthropology department would have no choice but to accept his findings. If he couldn’t, though, he would have wasted considerable time, effort, and resources, and made a fool of himself in front of his professors and peers.
