Havoc

Lake Nasser, Egypt

“Say again,” Poli repeated into his handheld radio.

“There were two people on the boat,” the patrol leader said over the crackling communications link. “A man and woman.”

“What was their nationality?”

“American.”

“Mercer,” Poli hissed under his breath. “Was the man about six feet tall, muscular but not big, with dark hair and gray eyes?”

“No. He was much bigger. Almost two meters. Very muscled. And he had black skin, a kaffir.”

Feines wasn’t sure how he felt. In a way, he was disappointed it wasn’t Mercer. Surely he had realized the significance of the stele and gone back to photograph it and have the writing translated. That would lead him straight here. Could it be the American had given up?

“You’re sure no one else was aboard?” he asked to the guard out on the lake.

“Yes, Tawfiq searched very careful.”

“Okay, let them go and tell them not to return.”

“Yes, sir.”

Poli clipped the radio back onto his belt. Around him was a small tent city, housing for the fifty workers and guards Mohammad bin Al-Salibi had arranged. Most were Saudis or Iraqis who’d been trained at Al Qaida camps in Pakistan and Syria. Poli had gained their fear if not their respect his first day here when one of the guards spat at his feet when he was given an order. Feines had summarily shot the man on the spot, telling the others through his translator that the guard hadn’t been a martyr, just an insolent fool who should have seen Poli as an ally, not the enemy.

When it became clear that the attack on Novorossiysk had failed to produce the desired results, Salibi had practically begged for Poli to find the Alembic of Skenderbeg for him. The Saudi’s pleas did nothing to move him, but with the promise of an additional twenty million dollars Feines had agreed, telling Salibi that there were no guarantees.

He’d made his way to Odessa, where he caught a flight to Cairo. Salibi had given him the name of an Al Qaida operative who could put together everything they would need, including finding a translator to decipher the photographs he’d taken of the stele. Of course the academic had to be killed to ensure his silence. The biggest delay had been finding men with scuba experience once they realized the tomb was under Lake Nasser.

Now that they were here they found that diving wouldn’t be necessary. Sometime in the five centuries since Skenderbeg’s men had returned the alembic to Alexander’s tomb, an earthquake had cracked the sandstone hills that once towered over the flooded Shu’ta Valley. Many of these fractures were mere cracks in the earth, but there was a long gouge that extended up from the lake. The feature was too straight to be a natural phenomenon. Poli recognized immediately that there was a tunnel rising up from the bottom of the valley and the quake had collapsed part of its roof. He set teams of men to begin digging at the top of the depression where he believed the tunnel’s ceiling had remained intact. Already they had dug down six feet.

Just offshore, the boat he’d planned to use as a dive platform, a forty-foot houseboat they’d bought in Aswân, sat quiet. They’d also bought two outboard boats to act as pickets to keep fishermen and others from the area.

Poli saw Mohammad bin Al-Salibi emerge from one of the tents. With his darkly handsome features and traditional white robes, he cut a dashing figure. The men all stopped as he passed, greeting him with deference or touching the hem of his robe. They might all be fanatics, but they knew who the money man was.

“Who was that on the radio?” Salibi asked.

“Picketboat stopped a yacht about five miles from here. Just some tourists.”

“Ah.” Salibi looked around the encampment. They’d accomplished an amazing amount of work in just a short time. All the tents were up, the kitchen was putting out meals, and the men had already settled into their routines. “So how long do you think this will take?”

“I do not know. The tunnel may be under another inch of sand or another fifty feet. It is possible I am wrong altogether which means I will have to dive and look for the cave’s entrance. You have to be prepared for the likelihood that it has been buried by the earthquake and may never be found.”

“Allah will bless us, I know it.” Salibi gazed out across the bay and continued in a dreamy voice, “We failed in Novorossiysk because the plan displeased Him. It wasn’t a blow worthy of our abilities. When you find the alembic we will strike at the very heart of our problem.”

“Yeah, and what’s that?” Poli asked, curious at the depths of depravity Salibi was capable of. He fully understood that the Saudi was doing this for political gain and economic advantage and not for some religious cause, but how he could warp his motivations to convince himself he was doing God’s bidding was fascinating.

“Turkey is the key. Their leaders are all godless secularists who care nothing for Sharia, the blessed laws of Islam. If we can make the people see that their government will not protect them they will rise up, throw off the yoke of Western influence, and embrace their faith.”

Poli thought to himself, thereby giving you the ability to cut off the million barrels a day that flows across the country in pipelines and use the Bosporus as a choke point to prevent tankers from entering the Black Sea.

“This is about saving the souls of the Turks because they believe women should have rights and that the church and state should be separate.

“This is about freeing a people and letting them know God’s love. I wish I could join the martyrs who will die in Istanbul for their glorious deaths will lead to a revolution that will see Islam elevated to its rightful place.”

“You plan to use the plutonium against Istanbul?”

“Yes. It will be like in Russia, only this time we will not fail.”

Feines gave a little thought to the fourteen million people who lived in the city straddling the Bosporus and shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy.”

In a secluded bay twenty miles from where they’d been stopped Mercer killed the Riva’s engine and dropped the anchor. The silence seemed to rush in on them after so many hours on the loud boat. They’d already made their plans and used a satellite phone to apprise Ira Lasko of the situation. He agreed they should reconnoiter the head of the bay before bringing anything to the President.

Dinner was subdued as they ate in the cozy dining nook. After the meal they changed into dark clothes. Mercer wondered if subconsciously they’d all known this could happen, because each of them had brought clothing suitable for a night operation. They waited another hour for the last rays of the sun to be snuffed out before hauling the small inflatable raft from the stern garage.

With the three of them plus one set of diving gear it was a snug fit and the little rubber boat sank almost to the gunwales. Their only weapons were a four-inch dive knife and a two-pound hammer Booker had found in the Riva’s tool box.

Using a handheld GPS they motored to within two miles of where they’d been stopped by the guards. Book was at the controls. He slowed the little dinghy to an idle and they crept forward another mile.

“This is good,” Mercer whispered. Book drove the inflatable onto a beach and he and Mercer dragged it out of the water.

“Bring the tanks or leave them?”

There was sixty pounds of equipment to lug another couple of miles over the rough desert but with three of them they could spread the load. “Leave ’em for now. We can always come back later.”

They walked single file and widely spaced. With his years of military experience Booker took point, and Mercer had the drag slot. Book took them inland about a half mile in case Poli had men watching the shore. With the GPS there was no chance they could get lost. The ground was mostly sand and small rocks, easy enough in the daylight, but a misplaced step could turn an ankle and it wasn’t until the landscape was bathed in the milky glow of the half-moon that they started to make time.

There were no sounds except the gentle wind and their own careful footfalls.

An hour into the march Book raised his hand and lowered himself to the ground. Such was his skill that it was as if he’d vanished. Mercer had seen the spot where he had been standing a second earlier but now there was no sign of his friend. He and Cali paced forward in a crouch until they came to a shallow wadi that hadn’t seen a flood in a century. Peering over the far bank of the old streambed, Mercer saw the moon’s reflection on the lake, a dancing white line that stretched to the horizon. Nearer, he saw lights and quickly made out an encampment. He counted a dozen tents. Anchored near the shore was a speedboat identical to the one Book said the guards had used, and a larger boat farther out in the bay. It looked like there was a guard aboard it manning a heavy machine gun.

The sounds of men talking wafted above the rumble of a generator.

Book handed Mercer the binoculars he’d been carrying.

Looking closer, he spotted armed men on patrol walking the perimeter of the compound and another guard stationed near the speedboat. A few men sat in a loose circle listening to another. By the listeners’ expressions Mercer could see the speaker held them spellbound.

“Nothing short of an air strike is going to take them all out,” Booker whispered, his mouth so close to Mercer’s ear he could feel his breath.

Mercer just nodded. He was looking at a spot where Poli’s men were digging into the side of the hill that rose at the head of the bay. The excavation was lit by floodlights and the men worked in teams hauling buckets of sand and loose dirt from the hole. Mercer saw that their work was at the apex of a straight trench that ran down to the water’s edge. By mentally extending the line, Mercer realized it went directly to the bottom of the valley, exactly where the stele said they’d find the entrance to Alexander’s tomb. He thought back to his visit to Egypt years earlier. He’d toured the Valley of the Kings with Salome and he recalled that the ancient Egyptians had dug long tunnels into the mountains in order to bury their pharaohs. He imagined what the Shu’ta Valley would have looked like before the Aswân Dam had filled it with water. It would have mildly resembled the fabled burial place of Egypt’s kings, so was it possible that Alexander’s men had ordered the excavation of a tunnel, only instead of descending into the mountains, his had risen from the valley floor?

“They’re going to have the alembic by tomorrow or the next day,” he said softly and explained his suspicions. “For a tunnel collapse to show on the surface like that it can’t be more than ten or fifteen feet deep.”

“What are we going to do?”

“That’ll be up to Ira. There’s nothing the three of us can do against that army down there.”

“What if there were more than three?”

The voice had come from behind them. Mercer whirled around, bringing up the knife in a lightning move. Ibriham Ahmad had approached so silently that even Booker hadn’t heard him. He wore his trademark black suit even in the desert, though he prudently wore a dark shirt and tie. Behind him were five more men. They wore dark camouflage and combat harnesses loaded with ammunition pouches. All carried several high-tech automatic weapons. Mercer recognized Ahmad’s protégé, Devrin Egemen. The young man bobbed his head shyly in greeting when he met Mercer’s gaze. Even bedecked with an arsenal of weaponry, Mercer couldn’t see the young scholar as a fighter.

“I should have known you’d find a way,” Ahmad told Mercer. His admiration was clear even though he whispered.

“And I should have known you lied to me about not knowing the location of Alexander’s tomb.” Somehow Mercer wasn’t surprised Ahmad was here. “How long have you been here?”

“I’ve had two men camped above the tomb’s entrance since Feines first approached me months ago. I myself arrived this afternoon.”

“You know he’s going to find the tomb quickly.”

Ahmad looked shamefaced. “I never realized the significance of that trench until Poli started digging. I had hoped to bring more men but we are attacking tonight.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Cali hissed. “There are fifty or sixty of them and only six of you.”

“Caribe Dayce had more than a hundred,” Ahmad replied.

Mercer remembered the savagery of that counterattack as he and Cali awaited execution. And he estimated Dayce had at least a hundred and fifty fighters. Ahmad’s team had killed them to a man in minutes. “That was just the six of you?” He couldn’t believe it.

“Actually Devrin was in Istanbul. We were only five. Dr. Mercer, the Janissaries are a military order. We’ve trained for warfare our entire lives.”

“Mercer told me about what you did in Africa,” Booker said. “Taking out a bunch of drunk and drugged up teenagers isn’t the same as going up against fifty battle-hardened terrorists.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Ahmad said simply. “This ends now.”

“It’s suicide,” Cali said. “You know what these fanatics are capable of. They’ll blow themselves up if they think they can get just one of you.”

“He’s right, Cali,” Mercer said. “There’s no other option.” He couldn’t believe what he was about to say when he turned back to Ahmad. “I’m in. What’s your plan?”

Before Ahmad could outline his strategy there was a loud cry from Poli’s camp. Everyone in the wadi looked to where the workers were digging into the hillside. Several of them were dancing in tight circles, cheering and raising their shovels over their heads in triumph. When nearby guards realized the diggers had succeeded in burrowing down to the tunnel, they fired triumphant bursts of gunfire into the air. One of them ran off toward the tents. Mercer followed him with his eyes. Even before he arrived at one set a little apart from the others, Poli emerged. He was wearing just pants and desert boots. His chest was very pale in the dim light but the breadth of it defied imagination. His arms looked as thick as tree trunks and hung from shoulders as broad as a hangman’s gallows. He started jogging up the hill to the excavation.

The man who had been giving a lecture to some of the terrorists stood in a swirl of robes and crossed the desert in Poli’s wake.

“Shit. They’ve broken through.”

Ahmad wasn’t watching the workers celebrating their success. He studied the man in the robes, his mouth set in a grim line, fiery anger behind his dark eyes. “Al-Salibi.”

“That’s the guy funding the operation?” Cali asked. “The one who works for OPEC?”

“He is using Islam as a tool to increase his wealth and power,” Devrin said with as much hatred as his master.

Poli waded into the cheering throng, shouldering aside Qaida fighters until he was at the top of the hole. Al-Salibi joined him a moment later, slapping the big mercenary on the shoulder, a broad smile on his face. Even Feines looked pleased with himself for coming up with this plan to gain easy entrance to the tomb.

“You did it, my friend,” Salibi said to congratulate him.

Salibi would never be his friend but Poli let the comment pass.

The hole was four feet square and sand poured over the sides into the darkness. The sides of the tunnel below were dressed with stone laid in neat blocks. Playing the beam of a flashlight over their surfaces Poli could see they were covered in hieroglyphs. He couldn’t see the floor of the tunnel because it was flooded, water that must have seeped through the rock over the eons and become trapped. He called for a rope. Once an end had been tied around a nearby boulder, Poli tossed the other end into the fissure. He climbed down using just the strength of his arms. As he reached the still surface, he tentatively lowered himself into the cool water, feeling for the floor with his foot. When he touched bottom the water was as high as his upper chest. The tunnel had to be fifteen feet tall and at least as wide. Aiming his beam downslope he could see the loose rubble of where the roof had partially collapsed. There were gaps in it where the ceiling slabs had only crashed partway to the floor. As he pointed the flashlight up the gentle grade the beam of light was swallowed by darkness. The tunnel could climb another two hundred feet before reaching the top of the hill.

He ordered that the construction lights ringing the pit be lowered into the tunnel and for more wire to be readied. He also ordered someone back to his tent for a shirt, his Geiger counter, and a set of scuba tanks in case they needed them. It took ten minutes to get everything in place. Al-Salibi had changed into more practical clothes and joined him in the ancient tunnel along with two of his most trusted fighters.

Every square inch of the walls and the ceiling where it hadn’t collapsed were covered in two-thousand-year-old glyphs depicting the Egyptian creation stories and commemorating Alexander’s journey through death. The natural pigments were as fresh and vibrant today as the day the master artisans had applied them. One of the fighters nudged his comrade to show him how he could scratch out the faces of the gods with his trench knife. They shared a laugh at the senseless desecration.

Poli tied the scuba tanks to the rope and started up the tunnel carrying one of the halogen lights high over his head. In his wake the shorter Saudis were forced to half walk and half swim to stay with him.

“We have to act now,” Ibriham said. “They will load the alembic onto a boat as soon as they bring it to the surface.”

“We have a boat of our own.”

“You do? Excellent. How long will it take to get it?”

Mercer thought through the timing, added a thirty-minute cushion, and glanced at his watch. “By two A.M.”

“The boat might be necessary,” Ibriham mused.

Mercer shifted his gaze to Cali. “Can you do it?”

She looked defensive. “Trying to protect me again?”

Mercer was. He didn’t want her anywhere near the fighting. They’d been lucky so far but this went beyond anything they’d faced since meeting in Africa. Having her with them when they took on Poli’s men wouldn’t make a dent in the odds so there was no sense putting her in danger. Then he asked himself if he was doing it for her or him. He remembered Tisa lying bloody in his arms as they were lifted off a sinking ship by a rescue helicopter. She never heard him say he loved her. “Do you really want to be here if our attack fails?”

“Do you?”

“No, but I feel a responsibility here.”

“And you don’t think I feel it too,” Cali shot back.

“Cali, this isn’t about protecting you. I lost someone I cared very deeply for. I can’t go through that again.”

She touched his cheek tenderly. “I’ll do it, but Mercer, I’m not her and you can’t always be there as my knight in shining armor. Okay?”

“Thank you,” was all he could say.

“I’ll come charging in at exactly two o’clock.”

Ibriham said to her, “If you see one of their boats attempting to escape, stop them.” With a whispered order from him, one of his men gave her an automatic pistol while others handed over some of their weapons and ammunition to Mercer and Booker Sykes.

Cali gave Mercer one last look but didn’t kiss him. “Good luck.”

“You too.”

“Man, you’ve got yourself a handful,” Booker remarked quietly after she faded into the darkness with Book’s GPS. “She is one fiery redhead.”

Mercer said nothing, trying to put the awkward exchange out of his mind and focus on what lay ahead. He didn’t care that they were standing feet away from perhaps the greatest treasure in human history, the value of which was incalculable in the monetary sense. Even more important was the insight the tomb would give on perhaps the greatest military mind who ever lived. Alexander the Great had single-handedly drawn the map of the ancient world, establishing boundaries that were still in effect today. All Mercer thought about at that moment was preventing Poli Feines and his sponsor from getting their hands on the Alembic of Skenderbeg. Let the archaeologists have their day when it was over. Tonight was about preventing genocide.

“What’s your plan?” he asked Ibriham again.

“Ten minutes before Miss Stowe is to return, we attack the compound.”

“What, just a frontal assault?”

Ibriham nodded. Mercer and Book exchanged a look and shook their heads.

Booker said, “We can do better than that.”

By one thirty the revelry infecting the camp had yet to die down. Men still talked animatedly as they peered into the hole, no doubt excited by the promise of so much death. Only a few had drifted back to the tents, where they were kept awake by celebratory gunfire. Mercer and Devrin were in position fifty yards from the kitchen while Booker had made his way around the encampment toward the lake’s edge. His job was to take out the houseboat. If he failed, the guard on board could turn the camp into a slaughtering ground with the machine gun they’d mounted on the boat’s rail.

For the first time in his life Mercer found he was eager for a fight. He wanted revenge on Poli, on Al-Salibi and on the men who thought wholesale destruction was their god’s greatest desire. The adrenaline pumping through his body was as familiar and rousing as an addict’s drug of choice. Even with the darkness he felt he could see perfectly. He could feel the barest whisper of the breeze against his skin and hear the muted lapping of wavelets on the shore. He could smell the spices from the kitchen as though he were standing at the stove.

The gun Ibriham had given him was a Heckler and Koch HK416, a compact 5.56-millimeter assault carbine with a detachable 40-millimeter grenade launcher. In the pockets of his cargo pants he carried four extra twenty-round magazines and two additional grenades. Although unfamiliar with this particular weapon, he was more than confident of his abilities with it.

He checked his watch for the fifth time in five minutes, more anxious than nervous. Booker would be slipping into the water about now. He looked toward the lake but couldn’t see his friend, whose skin blended with the night.

Keeping low so only his eyes appeared above the surface, Booker Sykes moved easily through the water. The houseboat was only fifty yards from shore, and while the gunner was still awake, he wasn’t looking around the craft, only at the celebration he was certainly disappointed to miss.

Book cut a wide circle around the boat to come at it from the seaward side. Light spilled from a window on this side of the boxy vessel and he could hear Arab music being played on a cassette deck. He edged closer to the stern, away from the guard. The boat was wooden-hulled and slimy. He reached for the railing that circled the low deck, moving slowly so water didn’t drip from his clothes. Rather than heave himself up, he slipped a leg through the railing’s stanchions and slowly rolled onto the deck. He made no sound and his motions had been so smooth that his added weight didn’t rock the flat-bottomed houseboat.

The square superstructure took up most the deck space, leaving a narrow catwalk ringing three sides of the boat. Only the back deck, where the machine gunner stood vigil, was open space. Booker padded aft, ducking when he reached the lighted window. Moving a millimeter at a time he positioned himself so he could see through the grimy glass. Two Arabs were at the dining table reading their Korans while a third was asleep on a threadbare sofa.

Booker eased himself down again. He’d expected there would be more than one man on the houseboat, but he hadn’t expected four and he didn’t know if anyone was asleep in the cabins. During a combat mission Booker was able to keep a precise clock ticking in his head so he knew the time almost to the second. He had two minutes before Ahmad’s men broke cover and started their assault.

He didn’t know how many men he’d killed in his military career. In just one night in Mogadishu he estimated a hundred rebels had fallen under his guns, but the ones he remembered, eleven of them, were the ones he’d taken with a blade. His nightmares were filled with every detail of their deaths, from the smell of their last meals to the heat of their blood. He could still feel the stubble on his palm from the sentry he’d taken at a drug lord’s hacienda. He could still hear the wheeze of air when he severed the throat of a North Korean sailor guarding a mini-sub packed with explosives. And their eyes. The eyes were always with him, asleep or awake.

Slowly, so it made no more sound than an infant’s sigh, he withdrew the knife given to him by one of the Janissaries.

Mercer slithered under the side of the kitchen tent. He’d heard only one man snoring inside. With the moon nearly set, the tent was pitch black. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. There was a gentle glow from the stove’s pilot light that allowed him to discern the layout of the tent. There were actually two stoves, several large plastic drums of water, and serving tables. A cot was against one wall, a single figure sprawled under the sheet. The cook’s clothes lay in a pile next to a small prayer rug. An AK-47 hung from the tent pole.

Moving silently Mercer approached the bed. He found the man’s kaffiyeh. He had no idea how to properly wear the traditional headscarf so he just draped it over his head and wrapped the tails to hide his face. He checked his watch. One minute.

Though the man was part of a terrorist cell, he was just a cook. Mercer imagined he’d been given these duties because he wasn’t a capable fighter. And no matter how Mercer tried to rationalize it in his head, he simply couldn’t kill him in cold blood. So when he smashed the butt of his HK into the man’s skull, he checked his swing just enough to render him unconscious. He bound the cook’s wrists behind his back with the Kalashnikov’s sling and was just about to stuff a greasy rag into his mouth when he sensed motion. He whirled, bringing up his assault rifle, but it was only Devrin.

“You are taking too long.” He saw what Mercer had done and quickly strode over to the side of the bed. He looked down at the unconscious cook, then glanced at Mercer. “This is why you will never defeat them,” he said and unceremoniously plunged a knife into the cook’s chest. “They ask for no quarter so you shouldn’t give it.”

He wiped the blade on the sheet, resheathed the knife, and together they exited the back of the tent.

Booker came to the edge of the superstructure. There was about eight feet of open deck between him and the machine gunner. He had twenty seconds. He crept forward, lifting his feet no more than a fraction of an inch from the Astroturfed deck. Book came to within a foot of the guard and he still hadn’t felt his presence. He kept leaning against the rail and watching the celebration on shore. Sykes was grateful he’d never see the Arab’s eyes.

He moved no slower or faster in those final seconds, simply took another practiced step and prepared to reach around the guard’s head with one hand while the knife in the other was poised to open his throat.

A casual voice called from the open door to the cabin. The guard turned to answer. He saw Booker no more than a foot away. With reflexes honed through decades of training, Booker lashed out even before the guard realized what he was seeing. Sykes drove the blade into the Arab’s neck and ripped outward, tearing through muscle and blood vessels so nearly half his throat was slashed open. Blood fountained from the ragged wound, splashing across the deck and into the water.

The man inside called again. Booker let the body fall and tried to swivel the Russian-made fifty-caliber so it pointed at the cabin door, but the gimbal only moved through thirty degrees.

Another guard appeared at the doorway. Booker threw his knife in a desperation toss because the weapon wasn’t balanced for throwing. The butt end hit the bridge of the man’s nose, breaking the delicate bones. As he reeled back roaring in pain, Booker kicked at the machine gun and grunted when it swung freely. To get the proper angle he had to jump over the rail and hang off the side of the boat. His finger found the trigger as a third guard appeared at the door. Booker was ahead of schedule by eleven seconds but there was no help for that now. He pulled the trigger and the big gun came alive in his hands, empty brass casings arcing into the night. The heavy slugs blew the guard back through the doorway, ripped the door off its hinges, and shredded the cheap wood superstructure.

Unable to see where the other gunman was inside the houseboat, Booker let go of the railing and dangled by his grip on the machine gun. Even with the superior firepower, he knew he was too exposed to counterfire from inside the boat or an astute sniper on shore. He cross-drew the Beretta pistol Ahmad had given him and aimed at the fifty-caliber’s ratcheting bolt. Before he pulled the trigger a pair of guns opened up from inside the cabin. There had been more men than Booker had seen. With bullets whizzing by, Book fired five rapid shots. The machine gun fell silent as the bolt jammed in the ruined receiver. The plan had been to use the weapon to cover Ahmad’s assault but he had to settle for denying Poli’s men from using it themselves. He took a deep breath as he dropped off the boat and began swimming away from the craft a good five feet under the surface so he would create no wake.

As soon as he heard the machine gun out on the houseboat bellowing its deadly tattoo, Mercer started running boldly across the camp. He wasn’t dressed exactly like the Arab fighters but he hoped the kaffiyeh would give him anonymity. The men had instantly ended their reverie and reached for their weapons, their gaze directed at the dark houseboat.

Mercer was halfway to the sheltered hole they’d dug down to the tunnel when Ibriham Ahmad’s Janissaries engaged. Two of them appeared on the hill above the encampment as if defying the Qaida terrorists. They took down several of the confused men before anyone even saw they were there.

In seconds thirty AK-47s roared as one and the crest of the hill disappeared in a hail of gunfire and kicked up dirt. Mercer could only trust Ahmad’s men as they caught the Arab fighters in a withering crossfire. The ground exploded at his feet as bullets flew in every direction. He had another thirty yards to go when the officers began to organize their men behind natural cover positions. Their return fire became more disciplined and Mercer could only detect three of Ahmad’s men still in the fight. So far no one had paid him any attention but there were two men guarding the excavation who hadn’t left their posts. They stiffened as Mercer came closer.

He tried to shield his face but the wary men started to raise their weapons. Mercer kept on running, gesturing wildly and shouting gibberish. His ruse worked to a point. Neither man fired, but neither did they lower their assault rifles. Mercer was five feet away from them when he staggered. As he pretended to trip he swung the barrel of his HK just enough to put a round through one of the guards’ chests. The other man reacted a fraction slow and Mercer rammed into him with all his strength.

The two of them crashed to the ground just at the edge of the pit, with their guns sandwiched between them. Their faces were inches apart. Mercer could see the mad fanaticism in the other man’s eyes, like the glassy stare of a fever patient. The terrorist shouted something about Allah and fired his AK.

The heat as the gun discharged seared the flesh of Mercer’s stomach and the blood that pooled between them was as viscous as oil. The guard’s mouth split into a filthy smile but then his expression changed. Mercer nimbly pushed himself off the terrorist. His clothing was sodden with blood but apart from the burned skin he was unharmed. The guard looked down the length of his body and saw the barrel of his assault rifle pointing up into his own chest. In seconds the murderous light faded from his eyes. In an attempt to kill them both he’d only managed to commit suicide.

“You can’t be a martyr if you don’t kill your enemy,” Mercer said and heaved himself over the precipice into the tunnel.

He’d been prepared to hit the water because he’d seen Poli bring dive equipment, but he nearly impaled himself on the scuba gear dangling from the rope. The sound of the raging gun battle was muted by the stonework. Even when he heard a grenade explode, it was little more than the sound of distant thunder.

With no light to guide him, Mercer started up the long tunnel, keeping the HK over his head. After twenty feet he couldn’t hear the fighting at all, which meant Poli and Salibi didn’t know about the assault, preserving his element of surprise.

He’d gone fifty yards when he tripped over a set of steps hidden under the water. As he climbed, he became aware of light ahead, a ghost’s glow as feeble as a guttering candle. His hands unconsciously tightened on his rifle.

He left the water completely at the top of the stairs and saw that the tunnel turned ninety degrees. Mercer approached cautiously, peering around the corner with his cheek almost touching the floor.

This had to have been as much wire as Poli had brought, because the powerful flood lamp sat in the middle of a vast chamber. The ceiling lofted thirty feet over Mercer’s head, supported by tight ranks of sandstone columns fashioned in the shape of palm trees. It was typical Ancient Egyptian architecture. They knew they didn’t need that many supports for the ceiling, but the design was to depict a dense and bountiful forest. The sides of the room were hidden in shadow but the parts close enough for Mercer to see were covered in hieroglyphs.

Straining to hear anything, Mercer almost laughed aloud when he thought the immense space was as silent as a tomb.

He slid into the chamber, keeping close to the walls. He had passed twenty columns when he spotted something glinting in the darkness. Mercer forgot himself for a moment as he stared at the object. It was a marble statue of a man holding a short sword in his right hand. In the other was a ball of rope that had been sliced in two. Mercer realized this was Alexander the Great after he had cut the impossible to untie Gordian Knot, fulfilling the prophecy that he would one day rule Asia.

He continued on. On the opposite wall from where he’d entered was another open portal. Wavering light spilled from the next room of the tomb complex.

The room was smaller than the first, the ceiling a bit lower, and there weren’t as many columns. Flames danced atop several low bronze braziers. The oil that Poli had poured from the earthen amphorae could still burn after twenty centuries. As stunned as Mercer had been by the statue, this room revealed something even more remarkable. He immediately thought of Chester Bowie and his crazy ideas.

There were eight dioramas set up in the room, each one depicting a different monster from mythology. A towering, man-shaped giant had a rib cage made of some large animal, a horse or cow, but its head Mercer realized was the pelvic bone of a creature he wasn’t familiar with, a prehistoric cave bear or maybe some kind of giant sloth. He recognized the skeleton of a griffin, a fabled creature with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle. The body was that of a large extinct cat, but its eagle head was the armored frill of a triceratops. Beyond it Alexander’s artisans had created a three-headed snake. The heads were from some kind of dinosaur, like a raptor or another flesh eater. The teeth were four inches long.

Everything was held together with bronze braces and wire, as expertly assembled as anything in a natural history museum today.

Bowie had been right that the creatures out of mythology were the ancients’ way of making sense of the bones they’d discovered of animals that had long ago gone extinct. They didn’t know what parts fit with what so they made it up as they went along, producing fantastical creations and the stories to go along with them.

Mercer wasn’t sure what impressed him more — the imagination it took to put together such marvelous creatures or the fact that an obscure professor from New Jersey had figured out the truth.

There came a sudden jolt and bits of sand rained from the ceiling. Mercer shook his head to bring himself back to reality. Something massive had exploded on the surface and for a moment he was sure Cali had arrived, only to have the Riva blown out of the water by an RPG. But the explosion had been much closer, and for it to shake the ground it couldn’t have occurred on the water. He heard voices from the next chamber. He moved behind one of the dioramas, a massive skeleton with elephant tusks for ribs.

Seconds later a terrorist with a thick beard hurried past carrying a flashlight, heading for the exit tunnel. Mercer waited in the shadows for him to return. He came back a minute later, sprinting through the gallery and into the next room, shouting incoherent Arabic as he ran.

“In English!” Mercer heard Poli roar.

Mercer could barely hear the words. “Someone has collapsed the tunnel. We are trapped.”

On shore about two hundred yards from the Al Qaida camp, Booker had cached the machine pistol given to him by a Janissary. He climbed out of the lake and found the weapon hidden in a tangle of dried grasses just as a searchlight on the houseboat snapped on. The beam turned the darkened shore into daylight just a few feet from him. A second gunman kept his weapon trained on the ground illuminated by the light.

There was nothing Book could do about the wet trail he’d left on the beach, so he waited, more exposed than he’d have liked. The beam brushed past the wet sand, paused, and returned. The two men on the bow of the houseboat jabbered excitedly, pointing. A third man emerged from a door that led to the pilothouse. All three raised their weapons.

Book fired first. The range was long for the stubby machine pistol and rounds just sprayed the boat randomly. Their return fire was much more accurate. He dove to his right to get away from where his fire had attracted their aim. Bullets peppered the ground all around him as he combat rolled a dozen times, never losing his bearings. His movements kept giving away his location on the open beach, and the firing intensified.

Sykes knew he didn’t have a prayer.

A streak of light shot from the hill above the camp, followed by a sharp whistle. The rocket-propelled grenade fell a little short of the houseboat, hitting the lake at its side in an eruption of water that doused the three fighters. Book used the distraction to lunge to his feet and start running.

The terrorist he’d seen manning the light saw him dash into the darkness and opened fire again, walking his bullets up Booker’s trail. He felt a bullet pass between his legs, knew the next one was coming for his spine, and threw himself to the left. He hit the rocky earth, rolled once, and was back on his feet in an instant, but the torn muscles in his back sent searing lances of pain radiating in all directions. His attempt to sprint away from the lake was little more than a drunken hobble and he came under fire almost immediately.

A second RPG slashed though the night, flying in a flat trajectory that sent it into the houseboat just aft of the bridge. It exploded and the houseboat disintegrated. The superstructure was peeled apart like an orange, fire erupting from the jagged seams as chunks of wood and metal rained down across the lake. Two of the gunmen were killed instantly, their backs flayed open by shrapnel. The third was blown off the boat and could have survived had there not been thirty pounds of rusted chain lodged in his abdomen. He hit the water and sank like a stone.

Booker turned and started limping back toward the compound. The battle was the most intense he’d ever seen. The two sides were exchanging fire at a staggering pace. He ultimately knew it was unsustainable. The Janissaries had only brought what they could carry — at most a couple hundred rounds each. Poli’s men had arrived with a near limitless supply. The simple truth was the Janissaries would be out of ammunition long before the Qaida forces.

He paused behind some cover to study the killing field. There were still twenty men firing up into the hills and he could see an officer organizing a patrol of another ten men to try to outflank the Janissaries. Of Ahmad’s troop of six he was only sure that three were still in the fight. Then he spotted a fourth. It was Ibriham himself. Somehow he’d found a gap in the Qaida perimeter and was crawling toward the excavated section of tunnel. From the Turk’s perspective he couldn’t see that there were two new men guarding the hole. He’d stumble right into them blindly.

Behind Booker was a twenty-foot sandstone cliff. He slung the machine pistol over his shoulder, reached for a handhold, and hauled himself off the beach. The agony in his back was like a hot coal lodged in his spine. He gritted his teeth against it, lifting himself another eighteen inches on stubbornness alone. Sheets of sweat bathed his body and he could feel tears rolling down his cheeks.

He found another toehold, braced himself for the pain, and lifted himself higher up the sandstone face. Nauseous saliva flooded his mouth and a whimper escaped his lips. Fearing he was doing permanent damage to his body, Booker thrust aside concerns for himself and fought on. It took him five minutes to scale the cliff and when he rolled over the top he wanted to lie there and let the pain wash over him.

Instead he got to his feet and surveyed the battle from his elevated perch. A pile of dirt was all that separated Ahmad from the men guarding the pit and still he hadn’t seen them. The range was nearly three hundred and fifty yards. Booker’s massive chest heaved and his heart was racing. He raised the machine pistol but his hands shook so badly he couldn’t get a sight picture.

One of the guards spotted Ibriham. He pointed and was going for his weapon.

“Dear Jesus, don’t fail me now.” Book tensed every muscle in his body for a second, drew down again, and opened fire, letting instinct guide his aim.

The first two rounds went wide. The third drilled the guard though the thigh, spinning him in place and dropping him. The fourth and fifth hit the second guard center mass, the bullets slowed enough that they ricocheted through his body, shredding his internal organs. Book put the sixth through the wounded guard’s head just as Ahmad rolled over the pile of excavated earth.

He didn’t acknowledge his guardian angel. He fumbled with a knapsack he’d carried to the pit and disappeared down the hole, leaving the bag behind.

Booker knew that Cali should be arriving any second, and even as he thought it he looked up the dark bay and could see the white of the Riva’s upper hull. She had idled the boat far enough out so she could react to a speedboat coming from the encampment, but not too close to draw attention. As much as he knew she wanted to be in the fight, she knew how to take orders and do her job.

He had turned back to study the battle and see where he needed to help the attack, when the knapsack Ahmad had left near the tunnel entrance exploded. The bag had to have contained thirty pounds of plastic explosives because the blast was massive. The fireball lit the head of the bay like a second sun as it climbed into the night. Fighters within fifty feet of the explosion were killed by the concussion scrambling their insides. Others a little farther were scythed down by debris, their bodies lying as limp as rag dolls.

In the fading light of the diminishing fireball Booker could see that the tunnel entrance had been obliterated. Ahmad had sealed the tomb to prevent Poli’s escape.

Poli and Salibi emerged from the farthest reaches of the tomb complex to see for themselves. The two guards followed in their wake. Mercer couldn’t guarantee taking them all so he let them go. As soon as they retreated to the first room, he dashed into the space where they’d been.

The oil lamps burning all around the chamber revealed it to be smaller still. And unlike the others, there were just a few columns. Instead the room was filled with the possessions Alexander would need in the afterlife. There were boats made of wood and reeds, tents, and furniture. There were several chariots and countless chests that would contain such household items as bowls and utensils. Unlike Tutankhamen’s tomb, there was very little gold, for Alexander hadn’t been a man bent on material wealth. Instead his tomb was filled with all manner of weapons — swords by the hundreds, javelins and lances, shields and helmets as well as bows and slings. Alexander’s generals had provided him everything he would require to outfit the army he would need for his military conquest of heaven.

Mercer wouldn’t let his attention focus on the golden sarcophagus sitting on a raised dais at the front of the room, with its panels of rock crystal shaved so fine they were as transparent as glass, or the mummified body within. Instead he looked at the large bronze drum that had been taken down from a niche in the wall. Its surface was dented and pitted from having been dragged all over the ancient world and later used in battles in Europe.

The Alembic of Skenderbeg was about six feet tall and four wide and was covered in Ancient Greek script. The two chambers were separated by a complicated mechanism that prevented the active plutonium from coalescing. There was something ominous about the device that went beyond Mercer’s knowledge of what it did. He sensed the alembic as a presence in the room with him, not alive exactly but aware. He could tell that it wanted to be found, that it wanted to be taken from this place so it could unleash its deadly radiation on a new world. The hairs on Mercer’s arms stood erect when he realized he was in the presence of pure evil.

The sound of gunfire echoed through the tomb. Mercer whirled as one of the guards burst into the burial chamber. Mercer was a fraction of a second slow reaching for his assault carbine. The guard fired a snap burst from his AK-47. The rounds stitched Alexander’s sarcophagus, shattering the delicate panes of crystal and powdering the mummified remains.

Mercer dove as the string of bullets cut through the air toward him, and came up hard against the wheels of a chariot. He slithered under the ornate vehicle as the terrorist started taking better aim. The filigreed wood splintered as it was savaged by the assault. Mercer got to his knees and fired through the spoked wheel, catching the gunman in the legs. The guard kept his finger on the trigger as he fell. The wild spray tore apart more of the chariot and sparked off the stone floor where Mercer knelt. His HK virtually exploded in his hands when a lucky bullet slammed into the receiver. The AK-47 fell silent when the bolt came down on an empty chamber. The terrorist had fired through the entire magazine.

Mercer jumped to his feet before the guard could reload. He snatched a short sword from the pile nearby and vaulted over the chariot. For a moment he didn’t understand what the wounded guard was doing. The object in his hands wasn’t the distinctive curve of a Kalashnikov magazine. It was round. Then he saw the beatific smile. The guard yanked the pin of the grenade and held it to his chest.

Mercer had five seconds and knew it wouldn’t be enough to get clear of the blast radius. He rushed forward and without pause swung the sword down onto the prone figure. The ancient weapon held a keen edge and the terrorist’s head jumped free in an eruption of blood and escaping air.

Mercer scooped the grenade from his lifeless fingers and with an underhanded toss flipped it over the sarcophagus. The explosion destroyed the rest of the priceless casket and sent Alexander’s remains into the air like so much dust, but the blast wave passed harmlessly over Mercer where he lay with his head cradled in his arms.

He got up and blinked, the gunfire in the next room sounding distant to his tortured hearing. He shot a concerned look at the alembic and breathed a sigh when he saw it hadn’t been hit by the fragmentation grenade. He grabbed the fallen Kalashnikov and searched the corpse for more magazines, cursing when he realized the man hadn’t been carrying any.

Alexander’s burial chamber was a storehouse of state-of-the-art weapons for their day but they were worthless against automatic rifles. Mercer could only hope that however many Janissaries followed him into the tunnel could take care of the remaining three killers. Then he saw the bows.

One in particular caught his eye; the wood was glossy smooth and it had a handle of inlaid ivory. It was a magnificent weapon, surely Alexander’s own. Hanging from its tip was a bowstring of tightly wound wire. Mercer took up the ancient weapon, reversed it, and tried to bend it to hook the string on the top notch. He could barely cause it to flex. He repositioned himself and pressed with all his strength, throwing his weight on the bow and digging in with his feet. The tough wood dug into his chest as it bent ever so slightly. Mercer ignored the pain and redoubled his efforts.

Slowly the weapon bent, curling downward so the loop on the string was tantalizingly close to the notch, but Mercer couldn’t get it that last half inch. He felt his body weakening and the half inch gap grew to an inch, then two. He wasn’t up to the challenge. Only Alexander himself had ever managed to string the mighty bow. What made him think he could handle the weapon of a god? Yet Mercer refused to give up. He pressed all the harder, closing the gap once again. He drew a deep breath, strained with everything he had, and the loop touched the top of the bow and then slid over the notch. Mercer relaxed and the wire held.

He marveled at the weapon’s balance and how the handle fit perfectly in his hand. The quiver for the arrows was a bronze tube. Its strap had rotted away eons ago so he improvised one with the sling of the AK.

He nocked an arrow and tried to draw the string back, the muscles in his chest and shoulders taking the strain. No matter how hard he pulled he could only get the bow to about half cock.

Not wanting to become trapped in the dead end burial chamber, Mercer made his way to the exit. In the diorama room he could see tongues of flame shooting out from the darkness as Poli and his men fired at the unseen Janissaries.

He padded silently around the perimeter of the chamber, keeping to the shadows away from the burning braziers as he sought a target. A long burst of autofire to his left caught his attention. He could just make out a man on the other side of three of the skeleton tableaus, firing at someone farther down the arcade of columns. Mercer drew the bow and paused, not sure of who he was aiming at. It could be Booker or one of Ahmad’s men.

The gunman moved just enough for light to flit across his face for a second. Mercer recognized Mohammad bin Al-Salibi and his hatred flared.

Between Mercer and Al-Salibi the three rearing monsters out of mythology made the shot next to impossible. Mercer would have to thread the arrow though the gaps in their skeletons if he wanted to hit the terrorist leader, and he hadn’t fired a bow since summer camp when he was thirteen.

He drew back on the wire, pulling it past what he’d managed before, until the downy feathers at the end of the arrow touched his cheek. Salibi had shifted position, hiding behind a towering thighbone of what the ancients believed was a cyclops. Mercer could just make out a sliver of his face through the forest of interwoven bones.

Shifting his aim a fraction of an inch, Mercer let fly. The ninety pounds of pull he’d maintained on the ancient weapon sent the arrow singing though the air. It shot through the gap between the hips and tail of the hydra, passed the length of its rib cage and out a hole in its shoulder before streaking to the next skeleton. Here too Mercer’s aim held true. The arrow barely brushed the tooth of the snake-like creature as it arced through its open jaw. And then it passed through the bones of another monster.

Salibi must have heard the sound of the bow because he turned at the last second. The arrow sliced though his cheek, breaking when it hit the bone but still carrying enough speed for the tip to pierce his skull. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Mercer readied another arrow and continued the hunt. The firing suddenly stopped and he lowered himself behind a column, waiting to see what would happen next. He detected shadowy movement heading in the direction of Alexander’s tomb, but he wasn’t quick enough with the bow. He continued around the perimeter of the chamber, his eyes straining to see in the uneven light of the braziers while making sure whoever had entered the third room didn’t reemerge.

A hand reached out and grabbed his ankle. He jerked it free and heaved on the bow, letting off the tension when he saw Ibriham Ahmad lying on the stone floor. His customary black suit was shiny at the shoulder and along his side. The sheen was fresh blood.

Mercer knelt at his side. “How bad are you hit?”

“I am dead, Dr. Mercer.” His voice was a hoarse croak. “Yet I go to my grave knowing the alembic will not leave this place.”

“You dynamited the entrance to seal us in.”

He nodded stiffly. “When I blew up the tunnel only Devrin and one other were left. I could not risk losing the fight.”

Had the Turk not already been dying, Mercer would have killed him with his bare hands. “You could have fucking warned me you were going to pull something like this, for God’s sake.”

“It is for God’s sake I did it. There was no other way. Our sacrifice will save millions.”

That was the difference between them. Mercer was willing to risk his life on even the slimmest odds, but willingly knowing there was absolutely no chance was something he couldn’t comprehend.

“I only managed to get one of them,” Ibriham slurred. He was going fast.

“Poli?”

“No, an Arab.”

“I got Salibi.”

“May Allah’s blessing be upon you, and may he rot for all eternity in the most foul hell.”

Trapped in this subterranean nightmare he might be, but as long as Mercer was alive there was always hope. He’d take care of Poli first and then try to figure a way to get himself and Ahmad out of here. That must have been the one-eyed assassin he’d seen skulking back into the burial chamber.

“Where’s your gun?” Mercer asked the Janissary.

“I am out of ammunition. I think we all are. That is why Poli stopped shooting.”

“Haven’t any of you heard of fire discipline?” Mercer spat. “Well, if I could take Salibi with a bow I can do the same to Poli. Are you going to be okay for a couple of minutes?”

“No, Doctor. I will be dead.” He said it with calm resignation.

Mercer didn’t know what to say. He laid a hand gently on Ahmad’s good shoulder. “Vaya con Dios.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s Spanish. It means go with God.”

“You could give me no better blessing,” Ibriham said with a faint smile and then he simply didn’t take another breath.

Mercer gently closed his eyes. “Enjoy your virgins, my friend. You’ve earned them.”

He stood and quickly made his way down the columned promenade, an arrow at the ready. At the entrance to the burial chamber he paused and scanned the space, unable to see anyone hiding amid the clutter of funerary artifacts. He took a cautious step into the room.

The bronze sword swung in a tight arc and sliced into the tough wooden bow, which saved Mercer’s life. Poli had been hiding just inside the entrance ready to ambush him.

The blow sent Mercer staggering back, and the sword lodged in the bow was ripped from Poli’s hand. Stunned by the attack, Mercer tried to dislodge the blade but it was stuck fast. Poli reared from around the corner, his single eye glinting in the firelight. Mercer backpedaled to give himself room. When he drew the bow the weakened wood broke where it had been sliced and the weapon just sagged in his hands.

Poli was only a couple feet away, his massive arms outstretched as he towered over Mercer. Mercer threw the bow at him. Poli caught it, contemptuously tossed it aside, and came on like a machine.

“You are a dead man.”

“Funny,” Mercer said. “I was about to tell you the same thing.”

Poli lunged at him. Mercer dashed to his left to avoid the attack and almost got free, but one of Poli’s big hands clamped down on his wrist. He turned on the inside and punched the Bulgarian under the arm. It was like hitting a truck tire.

Poli bent his wrist back, forcing Mercer to his knees. The mercenary fired a fist into Mercer’s face using all his weight. Mercer felt his nose break and the blood jet from his nostrils before he lost consciousness for a second. Poli yanked on his arm to rouse him and punched him again, even harder.

Mercer felt like he was being worked over with a sledgehammer. Poli heaved him to his feet and shoved him back against a wall. He tried to knee Mercer in the groin but Mercer shifted just enough to take the blow on the thigh. The leg went numb to his toes.

“I have never particularly enjoyed killing people,” Poli said. He wasn’t even breathing hard. “It is something I happened to learn I was good at doing.”

“So maybe now’s a good time to quit,” Mercer said and spat a glob of blood on the ground.

“But I am going to enjoy killing you. It will be hours before they dig us out so I am going to take my time.” He casually cuffed Mercer on the side of the head.

When he let go, Mercer couldn’t stay on his feet and he collapsed. Poli grabbed him by the hair and started dragging him back into the burial chamber. Mercer grabbed Poli’s wrist to lessen the pain as his scalp was nearly ripped off.

Poli dragged him upright again and, using one hand to hold him and one hand to punch him, fired a rapid series of shots into Mercer’s already bloody face. There was nothing Mercer could do but take the beating. He’d fought, and even defeated, men who were bigger than himself, but nobody with Poli’s size or immeasurable strength. He felt as powerless as a child at the hands of an abuser.

When Poli stopped, Mercer collapsed again. The big assassin went to a pile of swords leaning against a stack of sandalwood boxes. He came back, testing the edge, and showed Mercer the bloody line it left on his thumb.

“How do you think you’ll look without skin?”

Mercer could just lie there and stare up at him. Poli set the weapon down and forced him onto his feet again, saying, “I thought you were tough. The least you could do is make this interesting.” Holding one of Mercer’s arms Poli spun in place like a discus thrower and tossed him across the room. Mercer smashed into one of the chariots, almost flipping over its side. He couldn’t straighten himself by the time Poli grabbed him and threw him again. This time he crashed into the long wooden skiff Alexander was to use on the rivers of the underworld.

Poli reached for him again and just as his hands clamped on the back of Mercer’s neck, Mercer turned and rammed the butt end of a skinny oar into the giant’s eye.

Poli Feines roared in pain as blood and clear ocular fluid sprayed from the wound. Mercer took a painful step forward and rammed the oar deeper into the eye socket. Poli’s screams turned shrill.

Mercer reached out and yanked the oar from Poli’s eye and the merciless killer fell to the ground, clutching at his ruined face. “You’ve blinded me.”

Mercer grabbed a nearby lance to help keep him on his feet. “Not exactly an eye for an eye, you sadistic son of a bitch, but I think you get the point.”

Dawn was just brushing the eastern horizon when Cali Stowe brought the big Riva close to shore, where Booker Sykes and Devrin Egemen were waving her in. Behind them the camp was still, littered with the corpses of fifty terrorists. The Janissaries had won but at what cost? She scanned the beach for Mercer but there was no sign of him.

“He’s not dead,” she whispered as tears formed in her eyes. “He’s only a little wounded. He’s okay.”

As soon as she was in earshot she shouted, “Where’s Mercer? He’s not dead. He can’t be.”

Booker and Devrin looked at her stonily. She dropped the anchor and raced for the stern dive platform. She didn’t even kick off her shoes before jumping into the cool lake and stroking for the shore.

She scrambled to her feet as soon as it was shallow enough and charged out of the water, practically colliding with Booker. “Where’s Mercer?” she screamed.

There was blood on Booker’s uniform and his eyes were glassy with exhaustion. He could barely stay on his feet. Devrin was in even worse shape. His pants leg was sodden where he’d taken a bullet.

“He was underground when Professor Ahmad blew up the entrance to the tomb,” the young Turk said.

Cali fell to the ground and started to sob. “Was there anybody else down there?” When no one answered her Cali knew the worst. “How many?”

“Four, including Poli Feines,” Booker said.

“He might already be dead.” Her sobs turned into choking gasps as the enormity hit her. Mercer was dead. “Oh God, oh God.”

Booker hunkered down next to her. “We don’t know that for sure. He’s one tough piece of work. We’ll dig him out. We just need to get people here with heavy equipment.”

“That will take days. What if he’s injured? He could be bleeding to death right now.”

“Honey, there’s nothing we can do,” Booker soothed. “The quicker we get going the quicker we can come back. We’ll call Admiral Lasko and he’ll get the ball rolling. We have to go. Devrin needs to show that leg to a sawbones.”

“But…” Her voice trailed off.

“Cali, I know you think you should stay but sitting here watching a pile of dirt isn’t going to help him. We can be back here first thing tomorrow with a chopper and enough people to get him out.”

“I just can’t. I mean he’s…”

“I can’t believe it either but this is the only thing we can do. Come on.”

Cali let Booker draw her to her feet. They used the terrorists’ speedboat to motor out to the Riva. Booker and Cali had to carry the injured Janissary onto the luxury yacht. The scholar was going into shock from exhaustion and loss of blood. They set him in Cali’s cabin and they tucked blankets around his shivering body after Booker had redressed his wound. Booker asked Cali to stay with Devrin until he fell asleep, and then climbed up to the cockpit. Cali stroked Devrin’s feverish forehead, carefully brushing back his hair, her emotions in such turmoil that she could focus on nothing but the simple gesture.

The big engines rumbled to life and the Riva started to pull away from shore. Cali left Devrin and made her way to the stern window. The camp was quickly receding behind them as Booker brought the boat onto plane, a fat white wake forming a V that spread across the whole width of this narrow part of the bay.

She was about to turn away when she spotted something else marring the flat surface of the water. She almost dismissed it as a rogue wave but something piqued her curiosity, a vague sense of something she knew was caused by grief. Still, she ran out into the open dive platform. Unable to make out what had caught her interest she launched herself up the stairs to the top deck for a better vantage.

“Book,” she screamed, and when he didn’t hear her over the rumbling diesels, she ran up and smacked him on the shoulder. “Go back. Go back. There’s someone in the water.”

“What?”

“There’s someone in the water. Turn around.”

Booker shot her a dubious look but cranked the wheel over anyway. They backtracked fifty yards, keeping the engines at low RPMs, both of them scanning the water but unable to see anything except their own wake.

“You sure you saw something?”

Doubt crept into Cali’s eyes. “I thought I did.”

“Come on, we’ve got to get Devrin to a hospital.” He had cranked the wheel again and eased up the throttles when Cali shouted and pointed. On the crest of their fading wake a man was lying facedown in the water. Booker changed direction and gunned the engines. In seconds they were gliding by the pitiable figure.

“I don’t believe it.”

Cali grabbed a life ring and jumped over the side of the boat. The ring was torn from her hands when she hit the water and was driven deep but she found it when she resurfaced. She began to paddle wildly, pushing the ring ahead of her. It hit the man and turned him over. One arm came out of the water and draped over the flotation device. Mercer lifted his head from the water with a rakish grin on his battered but still handsome face. “I never figured Booker would try to steal my girl.”

Cali kissed him hungrily but Mercer had to push her back. His mouth was a bloody mess. “How?” she asked as they bobbed in the water.

“The tunnel was only partially collapsed,” Mercer panted. “I used Poli’s scuba gear to swim down until I found a place where the earthquake had opened up the ceiling enough for me to fit through. I let buoyancy do the rest.”