Sandstorm

11:42 A.M.

OMAHA SLAMMEDthrough the door to the Ministry of National Heritage.

The door swinging back almost struck his brother, Danny, in the face as he followed. “Omaha, calm down.”

“Damn bureaucrats…” He continued his tirade out in the street. “You need a friggin’ permit to wipe your ass here.”

“You got what you wanted,” Danny said in a conciliatory tone.

“It took all goddamn morning. And the only reason we finally got the permit to carry gasoline aboard the Rovers-to carry friggin gasoline!-was because Adolf bin Asshole wanted his damn lunch.”

“Calm down.” Danny grabbed his elbow and dragged him to the curb. Faces turned in their direction.

“And Safia…Kara’s plane is landing in”-Omaha checked his watch. “In just over an hour.”

Danny waved for a cab. A white Mercedes sedan pulled away from a nearby taxi stand and slid up to the curb. Danny opened the door and shoved Omaha inside. It was gloriously air-conditioned. Noon in Muscat and it was already over a hundred degrees.

The cool interior washed the edge from his irritation. He leaned and tapped at the Plexiglas between the backseat and the front. “Seeb Airport.”

The driver nodded and cut into traffic without signaling, simply barging his way into the lunchtime flow.

Omaha fell back into his seat beside his brother.

“I’ve never seen you this nervous,” Danny said.

“What are you talking about? Nervous? I’m pissed.”

Danny stared out the window. “Right…like meeting your ex-fiancйe, face-to-face, hasn’t trimmed your fuse a tad short this morning.”

“Safia has nothing to do with this.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I have no reason to be nervous.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, Omaha.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

Omaha shook his head. Both of them had had too little sleep since arriving two weeks ago. There were a thousand and one details to attend to when putting together an expedition in such a short time: permits; paperwork; hiring guards, manual labor, and trucks; clearing access from Thumrait Air Base; buying potable water, petrol, guns, salt, dry chemical toilets; organizing personnel. And all of it fell squarely upon the Dunn brothers’ shoulders.

The trouble back in London had delayed Kara’s arrival. If Kara had been here as planned, preparations for the expedition would’ve gone much more smoothly. Lady Kensington was revered in Oman, the Mother Teresa of philanthropy. Throughout the country, museums, hospitals, schools, and orphanages all bore plaques with her name on them. Her corporation helped win many lucrative contracts-oil, mineral, and fresh water-for the country and its people.

But after the museum incident, Kara had asked the brothers to maintain a low profile, keep her involvement on a need-to-know basis only.

So Omaha chewed a lot of aspirin.

The taxi crossed out of the business district of Muscat and wended through the narrow streets that bordered the stone walls of the old city. They followed a truck loaded with pines, weeping a path of dry needles behind it.

Christmas trees. In Oman.

Such was the country’s openness to the West, a Muslim country that celebrated Christ’s birth. Oman’s attitude could be attributed to the monarchy’s head of the state, Sultan Qaboos bin Said. Educated in England, the sultan had opened his country to the wider world, brought extensive civil rights to his people, and modernized his country’s infrastructure.

The taxi driver turned on the radio. Strains of Bach floated through the Bose speakers. The sultan’s favorite. By royal decree, only classical music could be played at noon. Omaha checked his watch. High noon.

He stared out the window. It must be good to be king.

Danny spoke up. “I think we’re being followed.”

Omaha glanced at his brother to see if he was joking.

Danny was craning over a shoulder. “The gray BMW, four cars back.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s a BMW,” Danny said more firmly. His brother-a yuppie wannabe, fascinated by all things German-engineered-knew cars. “I spotted the same car parked down the street from our hotel, then again at the entrance to the parking lot for the natural history museum.”

Omaha squinted. “Could be coincidence…same make, different car.”

“Five-forty-i. Custom chrome wheels. Tinted privacy glass. Even-”

Omaha cut him off. “Enough of the sales pitch. I believe you.”

But if they were truly being followed, only one question stood out.

Why?

He flashed back to the bloodshed and violence at the British Museum. Even the newspapers here reported on it. Kara had warned him to be as cautious as possible, to maintain a low profile. He leaned forward. “Take the next right,” he said in Arabic, hoping either to lose or confirm their tail.

The driver ignored him and continued straight.

Omaha felt a sudden twinge of panic. He tried the door. Locked.

They passed the turnoff for the airport.

Bach continued to stream from the speakers.

He yanked at the door handle again.

Crap.