Free Adam & Eve by Sena Jeter Naslund

bone. None of them gave the slightest attention to the truncated chimney full of crocodiles.
    As we two women passed through the streets of the village, Arielle explained, “I will fly you to Cairo to an abandoned airfield and show you the old plane that belongs to my father. You will like the little plane. Of course you will fly east at low altitude to avoid the war and the radar. The plane has a medical symbol on its belly. No one will shoot at you from below.”
    “I’m game,” I repeated, almost panting. Having shorter legs than Arielle, I had to hustle to keep up with her.
    “Good,” Arielle replied. “Do you want me to carry the horn case?”
    “No. I’ve got it.” I rather enjoyed feeling the weight of responsibility.
    Like a bird suddenly spreading one wing, the young woman opened out an arm to enclose my shoulders. I had seen such a gesture on a temple wall at Abu Simbel: a guardian figure—Isis, her lifted wing carved into stone. As Arielle squeezed the cap of my shoulder, I felt a frightening strength in her grip.
    I had seen such a gesture when the black piano lifted its wing.
    Our flight from Luxor to Cairo provided little opportunity for extended conversation. Once seated in the Cessna, Arielle put on her headphones and said simply, “I must concentrate on the flying. I am not so experienced a pilot as you, and this is a rental.”
    Despite my pilot’s disclaimer, I never felt the least doubt about the young woman’s competence. Her hands were quick and sure, and she was entirely focused on her work. Or was she simply a splendid actor, pretending to be focused on piloting to avoid conversation? Doubts and questions flooded my mind. It was comforting to follow the blue thread of the Nile, off to the left. As we began our descent, the river was lost in the smog-smudged sprawl of Cairo.
    Arielle set the plane down with perfect grace. Removing her headphones, she said, “We need to hurry.”
    While we walked rapidly over the tarmac of the small, almost deserted airport east of Cairo, I inquired of Arielle about her mother.
    “Igtiyal!”
Arielle replied. Her voice seemed tightly controlled.
    “That word again!” I exclaimed. It roused me like a long-ignored alarm bell. “What does it mean?”
    “Igtiyal
is the Arabic word for murder. My mother was murdered by extremists who hated my father’s anthropological approach to Islam. I was a little girl then.”
    “I’m sorry,” I answered. So Arielle, like myself, had known sudden loss. I put my arm around her and touched her shoulder.
    “We have no time now,” she said. “Papa and I will tell you about her death when you bring the codex to Lascaux.”
    My mind swung again to the image of Thom’s blood, red as horror. From beneath the shattered piano, the pool had enlarged steadily, its advancing edgea smooth curve. Before I had fainted, someone with a foreign accent—Egyptian, I now recognized—had said the word
igtiyal.
And now I knew: it meant murder. Someone had labeled Thom’s terrible accident, his death, as murder. My heart pumped fear and denial.
    There was the promised plane—very old and small. Something left behind by Americans after World War II. From the PA series—Piper Aircraft—a PA-11.
    “Ah!” I gasped as soon as I saw it. Not just satisfied, in a moment of recognition I felt shocked into happiness. I had learned to fly in just such an airplane.
    I knew all about it.
    Quickly Arielle said to me, “My father is so trusting, he did not think to tell you. The case is not only locked but also sealed against impact and water. An attempt to open the case might violate the integrity of the seal. Now hurry! Go!”
    As quietly as I could, I said, “I need to run the flight check.”
    “There’s no time. I did it myself. I did it this morning!”
    Her eyes pleaded for trust; against all my training and better judgment, I gave in to her. So quickly she seemed a member of my family!

THE DRAGON’S NECK

    W HEN A DAM AWOKE in