Page 89 of Afraid to Hope

“We researched you and your wife. We are very careful whom we sell to, as careful as you and the clients you represent.”

“How much of thisHomo sapiensdo you have?”

“We have all that was excavated.”

“Where’s the rest of it?” Bane asked.

Natasha rolled her eyes at him. He winked in response and gave her a cocky smile.

“We have all that was excavated. There was nothing else.”

“Fine. We’ll meet you tonight.”

“We can send someone to the guesthouse to escort you and your wife.”

The American knew where they were staying. “Not necessary unless you insist.”

“Second hangar, southeast of the terminal, parallel to the runway. We will have a portable machine your wife can use in her examination.”

“Good. She’ll bring her tools of the trade.”

“Salam alaikum,Rua.”

“Wa-alaikum salam,”Bane parroted back. He disconnected the call, then looked steadily at Natasha. “Ready?”

She didn’t flinch. “I am.”

Natasha and Bane arrived outside the airport grounds thirty minutes after evening prayer. No one stopped or questioned them, but they felt the presence of someone during their walk in from the guesthouse.

Ouarzazate’s small airport was quiet, ghostlike in its lack of activity. A cargo plane sat on the runway across from the building where they were to meet Gwafa and his colleagues, the cargo hold open and ready for loading.

The first person they encountered was at the entrance of the building. Natasha was asked to hand over her tote. The man flashed his eyes at her when he saw the phone. It was one they had purchased in the Tinghirsoukand served as a dummy, its SIM card empty. He pocketed it and pulled her organizer out and started to untie it.

“Don’t touch it,” she said in Arabic. “You will contaminate my tools.”

He stared at her, clearly intending to intimidate her. Natasha stared back. He finally looked away and motioned for her to put it back in her bag, then waved her in.

“I’ll wait for my husband, thank you,” she said firmly, again in Arabic.

Natasha’s SIG and Bane’s Glock were concealed in her compression shorts under the flowing, brightly patterned skirt she wore, their knives in her boots. Bane carried nothing. They had to risk it, expecting only he would be patted down, that rural Moroccan culture should play into their favor. Natasha hoped she could get his gun or knife to him if the situation turned ugly.

Bane was patted down. The man attempted to take his camera, but Bane argued that one condition of the transaction was that his client must see theHomo sapiensbeforehand. “No photos, no sale.” Bane grabbed the camera from the man and stepped away. “Let’s go,” he said to Nat, turning walking back the way they had come.

They were hailed immediately by another man. “Come back. Please.”

Natasha and Bane stopped and waited, watching as the small, wiry man trotted toward them, his djellabaflapping about his pants. “I am Gwafa.”

“Rua, and this is my wife, Dr. Rua.”

Gwafa considered Natasha for a moment, then bobbed his head at her. He extended his hand toward the building. “Please. Keep your camera.”

Bright lights illuminated the interior of the metal building. They followed Gwafa past the crates of items stacked on movable carts on the tile floor, wrapped in heavy paper and secured with layers of plastic wrap.

Natasha’s breath whooshed out of her. “Oh my god.”

TheHomo sapiensremains lay on paper within layers of soft cloth on a large rolling metal cart. Next to it was a metal table covered in colorful cloth, and on the other side of it a lab technician with the micro-CT, waiting to scan the remains.

Gwafa handed her a sheaf of papers. “These results verify authenticity. We understand you wish to examine.”

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