Foletta looks at her, then pulls one of the officers aside. “Officer, my name’s Dr. Foletta. I’m the director of this facility. This woman used to work with the resident that escaped. If they planned this together and she was his ride, then there’s a good chance he’s still inside.”

The police officer instructs his men to enter the facility with the canine patrol, then he turns his attention to Dominique. “Young lady, get your things, you’re coming with me.”

JOURNAL OF JULIUS GABRIEL

JOURNAL OF

JULIUS GABRIEL.

It was in the late fall of 1974 that my two colleagues and I arrived back in England, all of us quite happy to return to “civilization.” I knew Pierre had lost his appetite for the work and wanted to return to the States, the pressure from his politically oriented family finally persuading him to run for office. What I feared most was that he’d insist on Maria joining him.

Yes, feared. Truth be known, I had fallen in love with my best friend’s fiancée.

How does one allow such an act to occur? I pondered the question a thousand times. Affairs of the heart are difficult to justify, though, at first, I certainly tried. It was lust, I convinced myself brought on by the very nature of our work. Archaeology tends to be a profession of isolation. Teams are often forced to live and labor, often in primitive conditions, forgoing the simplest pleasures of privacy and hygiene in order to complete the task at hand. Modesty takes a backseat to practicality. The evening bath in a freshwater stream, the daily ritual of dressing and undressing—the very act of cohabitation can become a feast for the senses. A seemingly innocent act can stir the loins and prime the heart’s pump, easily deceiving the weakened mind.

In my heart, I knew these were all excuses, for Maria’s dark beauty had intoxicated me from the moment Pierre had introduced us during our first year together at Cambridge. Those high cheekbones, the long black hair, those ebony eyes radiating an almost animal intelligence—Maria was a vision that had captured my soul, a thunderbolt that struck my being yet forbade me to act, lest I destroy my friendship with Borgia.

But I did not give in. Convincing myself that Maria must remain an exquisite bottle of wine I longed to taste but could never open, I locked up my emotions and threw away the devil’s key—or so I thought.

As we journeyed from London to Salisbury on that fall day, I sensed that a fork in the road loomed ahead for our trio, and that one of us, most likely me, would be venturing down a path of isolation.