Cairo, Egypt-1971

No!" Robert stood to his full height. With a clenched fist, he clouted way too hard on the wooden slab that separated him from the fat Egyptian. He thought at the time the pounding of the table was a nice touch. It encouraged him to keep going. "That's not what you said you were going to do, and it's not good enough!"

"Things changed. That was then, and this is now!" Maya mimicked Oliver by standing up on his side of the bargaining table; the only difference was that it took the stout Egyptian outfitter a little less time to reach his full height, considering his five-foot-four, two-hundred-fifty pound framed contrasted to Oliver's lean six foot two, one-hundred - seventy-five pound version.

There was a long, silent, eyeball to eyeball, Mexican style standoff, only instead of South of the border it was deep in the shadows of a backroom rug shop in the lower intestines of the seedy section of the Kasbah. The air smelled of incense and dung, sweet and sour.

While standing locked in position, Oliver reflected on the advice his boss had given on how to deal with these Middle Eastern horse trader types.

"If they pound the table with their fist," the Chief had said, "you pound yours twice as hard. If they tell at you, you yell back even louder. They threaten you ? You threaten them. Haggling and blistering is a way of life in that culture. More than half the fun of a successful negotiation is the journey. Focus on the process, not the result, and you'll do fine, Robert," the Chief told him.

After some internal contemplation, Oliver decided to go for it. "You're trying to cheat me of my deposit, and I'm not going to stand for it!"

"What did you say?" Maya said, gritting his brown teeth. The Egyptian knew English very well. He had told Oliver he was educated by British nuns in a North African Catholic School. He didn't like the nuns, especially when they whacked his knuckles with his own wooden ruler. His parents wanted him to be western-trained, but it was all the same to him. He pretended to be ignorant of English when it was convenient to be so. But he always kept detailed tabs in his head; his mental account ledger was long, and Oliver knew it.

"You heard me!" Oliver shot back.

"What are you going to d about it, you spineless American?"

"I'll show you what I'm gonna do, you liar!" Robert drew his hunting knife and waved it in the direction of his adversary. Attitude is everything, he thought.

This move might have seemed a bit rash, considering the size and quantity of Maya's henchmen standing behind the fat Egyptian. No less than eight well armed thugs glared at Oliver as he stood alone. At the brandishing of the knife, the backups did not budge. Not an iota of expression changed. They stood motionless, glowering at Oliver the same way their leader did.

"Saving face and showing bravado is everything to these people,Robert. Don't back down, and don't give up!" The Chief had assured Oliver.

Maya spoke calmly. "Over here, you know, it's not polite to insult a man in his own house." The Egyptian snapped his sausage-sized fingers and the backup chorus removed their formidable daggers in order to clearly outmatch Oliver.

"Who says you're a man? A man doesn't go back on his words!" Oliver expressed himself vehemently, wondering where that came from. He thought maybe that last statement was a little too much, considering odds.

"Nine against one does not portend a good outcome for you, my friend," the Egyptian said. "What if I order my men, right now, to jump you and cut you to pieces? You wouldn't stand a chance."

"The question is, could they get to me before I get to you?" Oliver aped the Arab's calm demeanor.

An eternity plodded by while Oliver considered what Maya would do next, and vice versa.

"I could order my men to cut off your hands," Maya snorted, "or worse."

"It would be your last command. I could hit you like a pig faster than they could get to me!" Oliver sneered. "What say let's give it a go, eh, Maya?"

Another long pause ensued while the sun beat down on the roof, high overhead on its perpetual course. It was just about lunch time and the pig comment started to work on the fat outfitter's appetite.

The other shoe dropped , as the tension was finally broken.

"Ha, ha ha," the Cairo business man laughed, "I like you. You are not such a typical American. You have courage and a spirit that is almost as good as an Egyptian_but not quite. Let us sit down and negotiate over a meal fit for the likes of you and me." He clapped twice, and the men behind him relaxed, sheathed their weapons, and filtered out the back door.

Oliver put away his knife and followed Maya out the same door as the Arab backoned him with his hand over his shoulder.

In a lush tent behind the back room, the food was lavishly served and the large Maya ate everything that was brought within arm's length.

I'd hate to stand between that guy and a pot roast at suppertime, Oliver laughed to himself.

After a good long meeting of the minds, it was all settled. The outfitter was to provide supplies, transportation, camels , expert guides , and so on for the agreed upon price . The price was a little more than initially proposed, but the Chief had anticipated even this and given Oliver adequate resources to cover the venture and then some.

Even though Dr. Camilo predictably stayed home and never accompanied Oliver on any assignments, the Chief always seemed to foresee every little detail of the mission. During their partnership, Oliver grew to realize the importance of the preparation his boss always did in order to guarantee the success of each case. He quickly learned to rely heavily on the advice and counsel of the Chief. Even though he was back home, inside his study , thousands of miles away, the Chief was continually involved in the quest. This was not the first time, nor the last, that the Chief would be proven correct.

The following day, the caravan started out east, into the wilderness of the Sinai Peninsula.

"Where to?" the lead guide wanted to know.

"That way," Robert pointed to the rising sun.

The guide , Mohammed, shrugged his shoulders and went that way. The corpulent Maya was conspicuous by his absence. "Perhaps I would kill one of my own camels with my weight, you know, my fat belly and all. My wives like me this way!" Then he laughed loudly at his own joke as he gestured goodbye.

Oliver had the Chief's meticulous maps and dirctions tucked away in his back Pocket. The company he worked for was called Lost and Found International. It was a regular two man show, but not a rinky drink outfit. The chief was known worldwide for being able to locate almost anything, old or new. He had a reputation, s good one. He was the brains , Oliver was the brawn, and Joyce (ah... Joyce), was the heart and soul. Lost and Found International (LFI), was a small, agile , efficient machine, well oiled and nimble.

Oliver settled in on top of the camel swaying gently back and forth, knowing that it would be a long trip across the desolate plains to the object destination.

His boss had told him to write his memories of this case for posterity. Oliver did not consider himself much of a writer_or reader, for that matter_but he used the slow, bumpy ride to record his thoughts and experiences.

Oliver always loved being outdoors. Under the open skies was the only place for him. He loved his work_adventure, discovery, the ancient, the new, the unexpected. He loved going into the Badlands and thinking fast on his feet, riding shotgun. The solitude of the trip and the danger of the journey were their own reward.

He thought about Dr. Camilo.

Observing his own dromedary, he mused, I'd like to see the Chief up on top of one of these hump backed camels. He especially relished the part that the Chief told him about Zarathustra meaning "lover of camels." He laughed out loud at the thought.

The Chief wouldn't last three minutes on one of these long necked desert beasts of transportation, he thought. I could just see him swaying on top of one these things, with his bow tie and his three-piece suit and his well manicured goatee.

The Chief hated the outdoors with a passion. He'd much rather be reading some dusty old book in his office than out in his own backyard looking at the stars.

Oliver was the opposite: nothing like fresh air and plenty of elbow room for Robert, adventurer , stargazer . No one was going to tie him down to a desk.

When he was twelve years old, his foster mom made him take violin and piano lessons. She could afford it; his foster dad had a good shipyard job. All of his friends were out in the vacant lot down the street playing football. Oliver couldn't stand the thought of them having fun and him missing out on all the bone cracking action.

He would squirm and whine, trying every angle he could think of to wangle out of taking piano lessons . But his foster mother was resolute _up to a point. Eventually, Oliver's will was stronger than hers. She threw up her hands at last, and said in expectations, "I give up! Go out and play stupid football. But you'll be sorry some day. Robert , that you didn't take piano! Mark my words!"

He was never sorry. What a waste of time, banging away inside on some old keyboard. He was rough and ready for the outside job. At least that's the way he liked to view himself: as a self-made man of the world, young but wise, with street smarts. He didn't need need any help from anybody, except maybe the Chief and Joyce. Ah... Joyce.

Robert was literally hot on the trail, there under the desert sun. He was after the Amulet of Zoroaster . He'd thought it was a lot of bunk when he'd heard about it, but if some people were willing to pay the tab, Oliver was willing to do the search.

After the novelty of the camel back journey wore off, the way Eastward grew boring. Oliver knew he had to make it to the ancient land of the Persians. The goal was the Mesopotamia valley, and the Amulet was the prize.

"It is true, Robert," he remembered the Chief saying, "the devoted followers of Zoroaster know of the foretelling of the Avesta and of Sosiosh the Victorious shining in the brightens of the mighty. The last and the greatest , the very Amulet of Zoroaster_ that is the prize that the Raja seeks, and that is the prize he is willing to pay handsomely for. That is your job, Robert. Find that prize!"

"Do you believe in all this Amulet mumbo-jumbo?" Oliver asked him.

"It is only important that the Raja does. He's paying the bills, Robert," Dr. Camilo concluded.

Dr. Alexander had given Oliver the layout of the immediate area where the cave of Zarathustra was supposed to be: somewhere between the two great rivers, the Tigris and the Euphrates, surrounded by a deep rift, spotted on either side of the sheerwalled gorge with countless caves that held treasure and artifacts of priceless value and, of course , the Amulet itself. But Oliver would have to discover the whereabouts of the specific gorge. There might be a hundred such land formations in that part of the world that fit that description.

Miles and miles of wilderness, that's what it was: a big sand pit. As Oliver went along, the sameness of the topography dulled his mind. But he still thought it was better than being stuck in some moldy library, like the Chief.

After seemingly endless tracks of dunes and scrub brush, the encourage came to the Gaza. Pressing on, they skirted the valley of Megiddo, desolate and arid. Oliver liked the starkness of the journey. They purposefully avoided the Israeli cities and Palestinian groups , choosing to pose as a nomadic caravan in order to minimize contact. Dr. Alexander had advised Oliver to avoid the possibility of Political entanglement. This was an area of the world where turmoil was always fomenting under the surface. Since the caravan was just passing through, the locals ignored them.