The Seventh Plague

15

Sunrise struck like a sledgehammer.

Gray swore under his breath, yanking down the visor, squinting as the leading edge of the sun crested the rocky dunes to his right. The skies had been steadily brightening for the past hour, but he hadn’t been prepared for the fiery arrival of the new day.

While Gray took his stint behind the wheel, the others slept or drowsed. In the backseat, Jane nestled against Derek, whose head was lolled back, his mouth open. Kowalski sat with his chin on his chest, snoring loudly, challenging the throaty growl of the truck’s engine. Seichan shared the front seat, her head resting against the window.

The only member of the party still awake raced ahead of the lumbering Unimog. The boy Ahmad rode an old Suzuki Tracker sand bike, cutting expertly back and forth, the rear wheel’s thick tread chewing across the treacherous terrain. Ahmad had grabbed his bike before the group left Rufaa. Kowalski had helped him haul it into the truck’s back bed, where Ahmad’s dog, Anjing, now slept in a nest made of their packs.

Three hours ago, Ahmad had guided them to the spot where his cousin’s family had found Professor McCabe in the desert. They had stopped and examined the site, but it had offered no clues. What hadn’t been trampled over by local search crews, the strong winds and blowing sands had washed away. Those same shifting sands had also erased the professor’s tracks leading there.

So they set off, aiming for the coordinates marked by an X on Derek’s map. Ahmad had unloaded his bike and led the way onward, searching for any remaining footprints or signs of Professor McCabe’s passage. He swept in wide arcs, far in the lead, running dark with his headlamp off. He claimed he could see best with just the light of the moon and stars.

Gray followed throughout the night, doing the same, but he didn’t have the eyes of a desert nomad, so he kept his headlights blazing a path before him. Over the past hour, they had been climbing into a region of rolling hills, worn low by the sun and wind.

Seichan stirred next to him, stretching an arm, arching her back. She shaded her eyes against the brightness. “What time is it?”

“Time to look for shelter. It’ll be broiling out there in a couple hours.”

“How far are we from Derek’s coordinates?”

Gray checked the GPS map on his satellite phone. “Another twenty miles, and all of them rough.”

Looking at the broken hills ahead, split by dry riverbeds called wadis and wind-sculpted ridges, he understood the wisdom of their choice of vehicle. The Unimog might only have a top speed of sixty, but it made up for its sluggish pace with pure terrain-hugging grip. Still, before they tackled the obstacles to come, they could all use some time to stretch their legs and get food in their bellies.

Ahmad must have had the same idea. Far ahead, he whipped his bike around, casting up a rooster tail of sand. He pointed toward where a low cliff leaned away from the sun, creating a shady oasis beneath.

Gray trundled toward his position as the others woke with various sounds of complaints.

“We’re going to take a short break,” he announced. “And let the engines cool before the final haul.”

Kowalski puffed out a long breath. “Good. Cuz I also gotta talk to a man about a camel. Drank way too much water.”

Ahmad parked his bike and waited for them. He bounced about on his feet and waved an arm, plainly anxious for them to arrive.

How does that kid have so much energy?

Gray finally ground to a halt, pulling the Unimog into the shade. A happy bark came from the back bed, and Anjing leaped free and ran to his young master. As the dog and boy met in a timeless dance of greeting, everyone piled out.

“Come see, come see!” Ahmad urged.

Gray led the others toward him, while Kowalski headed toward a private spot to have that talk with a camel jockey.

“Look.” Ahmad pointed to the sand. “Footprints.”

Gray held everyone back, circling the disturbed area. “Definitely boot treads. And the sand’s also scooped out, like someone sought a cooler bed for the night.”

“Or for the day,” Jane said. “My father knew the desert. He would’ve traveled only when the sun was down.”

Derek agreed. “Harold was a tough bird.”

“But he’d been delirious,” Seichan reminded them. “Who knows who might have camped here?”

“It was my father. I just know it.”

Jane dropped to her hands and knees in the shelter. She swept her palms over the areas, working in a spiral out from the center.

Derek touched her shoulder. “Jane, maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t.”

Jane shrugged off his hand. “If it was my father, he might have left—”

A brush of her fingers exposed something poking out of the sand. Startled, Jane yanked her hand back. It was the end of a glass jar, sealed with a rubber stopper.

Gray lowered to a knee beside her. “Let me.”

He reached and extracted the object. It was a test tube — with something rolled and stuffed inside.

Jane sat back on her heels, her eyes wide. “My father must’ve wanted to keep this from his captors and hid it here in case he was caught.”

“But what is it?” Seichan asked.

Gray weighed the risk of opening it, cognizant of the disease the professor had been harboring. Still, Ahmad’s relatives hadn’t become ill, and the professor surely hid this for a reason, hoping it would be found by the right people.

So be it.

He gripped the stopper, twisted it loose, and shook the object into his palm. It looked to be a tiny scroll of parchment. The others closed around him as he unrolled it. He did so carefully, sensing it was very old.

Once the scrap was spread out, he discovered a line of hieroglyphics written across its length.

Jane leaned avidly forward and held out her hand. “Let me see.”

Derek peered over her shoulder as she took the fragment. “Look at the style of the glyphs. Like the quail chick and the reed. The writing must date back to the New Kingdom.”

Jane agreed. “Definitely seventeenth or eighteenth dynasty.”

“What does it say?” Gray asked.

Jane scrunched her face. “The grammar and syntax are odd. Something about taking a boat to the river’s mouth. Then more about elephant bones.”

She looked to Derek, who could only shrug, clearly as confused.

Gray frowned. “Why would your dad go to all this effort to hide this old scrap of parchment?”

“First of all, it’s not parchment.” Jane rubbed the material between her fingers. “It’s leather. Maybe even tattooed human skin.”

“And notice how clean and straight the edges are.” Derek pointed. “Like it was cut free with a scalpel.”

Jane squinted. “From its desiccated condition, I’d say it came from a mummy.”

“But why?” Gray pressed again.

Jane turned the relic over in her hands, then stiffened. She held the piece out to Gray. “Maybe because of this.”

He leaned closer. Faint numbers and letters had been hastily scrawled along the lower edge.

“Coordinates,” Gray said.

As everyone stared at him, he pulled out his phone and plugged in the numbers as Jane read them aloud. A moment later, a glowing red dot appeared on the map.

“Where does it point to?” Seichan asked.

Gray looked up. “To a spot only two miles from where we were headed. Very close to the X marked on Derek’s map.”

Jane stood up. “We have to get over there.”

Gray nodded. He rolled up the fragment and tucked it back into the tube, then pointed to the truck. “Let’s load up.”

Kowalski strode back to them, moving quickly, glancing over his shoulders and up at the sky. In his haste, he had forgotten to zip his fly.

“What’s wrong?” Gray asked.

“I think we’re being tracked.”

“What?”

“I was taking a leak, and I saw something moving in the sky, near the horizon. It vanished into the sun’s glare and was gone.”

“It could’ve been a bird,” Derek offered. “Hawks, kites, vultures hunt even this far into the desert. Especially early in the morning.”

Gray looked hard at Kowalski. “What do you think?”

Kowalski rubbed a palm over the nape of his neck. “Maybe. I don’t know. But, hell, even before I saw it, I felt like someone was watching me.”

Jane turned to Gray. “What should we do?”

Gray weighed the odds. Kowalski might not be the brightest bulb in the box, but the guy had a keen instinct, especially when it came to surviving. Still, they couldn’t go running back to the Nile, spooked by a hungry vulture. Too much was at stake.

“We go on,” he decided. “But keep watching our backs.”

“And the skies,” Kowalski added, finally zipping up. “Don’t forget the skies.”

Seichan shared a look with Gray, her worry clear. Back in Rufaa, she had been adamant that the stranger sniffing around their truck had been no mere thief. Here could be further confirmation. If so, there was only one conclusion to make.

We’re heading into a trap.

Valya cursed as the drone landed in the sand near her team’s encampment. The exhausted UAV — an RQ-11B Raven — had a four-foot wingspan and weighed less than five pounds. It was one of two birds that they had been using for aerial surveillance. Each had a charge that only lasted ninety minutes, so she had been alternating their flights to keep a watch on their targets, swapping batteries between runs.

After arriving from Rufaa in the middle of the night, she had followed the enemy’s slow progress across the desert, monitoring from a small ground station hidden under a desert-camouflaged tent. The encampment had been set up in the hills that overlooked the flat terrain between here and the Nile. She had surmised correctly that the others would head first to the location where local tribesmen had found Professor McCabe.

Knowing there was a slim possibility she could have been wrong, she had hoped to fix a tracker to their truck. Such a device would be even handier now. With the sun up, they dared not use the drones anymore. She had already kept the last Raven aloft too long. For a brief moment, the drone’s optics had caught the large man in the group squinting straight at the UAV.

Though the bird might not have been spotted, she regretted not withdrawing it sooner. She had taken that risk, hoping to discern what had stirred up the group a few moments ago. She got the briefest sidelong glimpse as they all huddled intently together, looking at something. But the overhang of the cliff thwarted her view.

What did they find?

She was especially suspicious considering the Unimog’s course all night. The truck — led by a small sand bike — had been heading in a straight line toward their position, as if the others knew where they were going. She had expected the group to set a more expansive search grid, sweeping back and forth, in an attempt to pick up the professor’s trail.

Instead, their aim was uncanny.

They can’t possibly know what’s out here.

“They’re moving again,” a voice sounded in her ear.

It was a scout she had sent circling wide to watch for the truck when it climbed out of the shadowy cleft again.

She swung to the right and spotted a dusty cloud rise two miles to the west, marking their trail. She had another six men spread throughout these canyons and hills. Not counting their group leader.

“What’re your orders?” Kruger asked, standing stiffly at her side.

Willem Kruger — like the rest of his handpicked team — was a former reconnaissance commando with the South African Special Forces. He and his crew had been drummed out of the brigade due to accusations of offering armed support to human traffickers on the continent. She did not know if those stories were true. All she knew was their reputation: They were brutal, efficient, and uncompromising.

Kruger squinted toward the distant dust trail, tracking its progress. “Do we close in on them now?”

She considered his question, staring at the emblem fixed to the man’s desert khakis. It depicted a black dagger set against a green laurel wreath. It was his old Special Forces badge — but the dark blade reminded her of another knife, her grandmother’s athamé.

She remembered the promise made last night, an oath carved into cold flesh. Her fingers absently rubbed the black handle of the dagger sheathed under the cuff of her sleeve.

Her standing orders were to secure Jane McCabe — the others did not matter.

“No, not yet,” she decided.

Kruger gave her an inquisitive look.

“I know where they’re headed,” she said, suddenly sure. “It’s a dead end.”

And even more so, if they discover what’s hidden there.

8:08 A.M.

Jane gripped her door handle as the truck rode over a boulder, tilting precariously. They had been crawling through the challenging terrain for more than an hour.

“I think I can walk faster than this,” Derek said as the Unimog righted itself, rocking heavily on its suspension. He held tight on the other side of the backseat.

Seichan sat between them, leaning forward to talk to Gray as Kowalski drove. “How much farther?”

That’s a bloody good question.

Gray pointed ahead. “See that cleft between the next two hills? The coordinates Professor McCabe wrote down lie on the far side.”

Jane spotted Ahmad, still leading the way. He and his bike vanished into the shadows between the cliffs. Anjing gave chase. The pace had been slow enough for the dog to keep up, even running off at times to check out an interesting smell or to relieve herself.

They lumbered after the boy and his dog, but their speed grew ever slower as the terrain became more difficult. By the time the truck reached the fissure a snail could have outraced them.

Still, Jane didn’t complain as the Unimog forced its way into the cleft, which looked barely wide enough to accommodate the truck. She pictured them becoming stuck, pinched between the two walls of rock. With no rear hatch and no sunroof, they would be trapped, at the mercy of the sun when it climbed to noon and baked them inside.

A loud, sustained grind of rock on metal set her teeth on edge. She was sure her fear was about to become reality.

Even Gray cast his gaze back and forth, looking worried. “Kowalski…”

“Plenty of room,” the driver insisted.

“Then why are you removing half the paint on my side?” he asked.

Kowalski shrugged. “What’s a few battle scars?”

After another tense five minutes, the walls dropped away to either side. The Unimog picked up speed.

“Told you,” Kowalski grumbled under his breath.

The gap opened into a bowl of sand the size of a football field. It was surrounded on all sides by rocky cliffs. A gust swirled through the valley, stirring the grains. Small dunes rimmed the edges, like waves on a windswept lake.

Ahmad had parked his bike in the shade covering half the floor at this early hour. He was down on one knee, letting Anjing lap water from his canteen.

“Well, I got us here,” Kowalski said as he drew the Unimog into the shade and stopped. “Now what?”

Seichan frowned. “Place is empty.”

Jane felt she needed to defend her father, to be his voice. “There must be something.”

“Jane’s right,” Derek insisted. “Harold wouldn’t have risked everything and hidden these coordinates unless they were important.”

“We go look,” Gray said. “We’ll spread out into two teams and search the cliffs.”

“Or why don’t we just go see what’s got that kid so excited?” Kowalski suggested.

Ahmad waved and pointed toward his dog. Anjing had finished drinking and must have run to one of the walls, drawn by some scent. The dog dug vigorously amid some boulders at the base of the cliff. Sand rocketed high between her hind legs.

Curious, they all offloaded. The day had already grown considerably hotter, even in the shade. The group hurried to the boy.

“Anjing find,” Ahmad said. “Come see.”

Jane looked past the busy dog and immediately saw what had gotten Ahmad so worked up. Flush with the cliff face was a metal door. To further mask its presence from the casual eye, its surface had been acid washed to match the red-gray sandstone of these hills.

Derek’s attention was elsewhere. He had dropped to run a hand over one of the small boulders. “These aren’t rocks. They’re old bricks. You can still feel the chisel marks.”

Jane glanced from them to the door. “The stones must have originally sealed this place up.”

She pictured her father coming here two years ago and opening whatever lay beyond, but this wasn’t his meticulous handiwork. Someone had trampled over it, either ignorant or unconcerned about preserving the history found here, even if it was only an old pile of bricks.

Anjing dug at the door’s base, clearing away some of the windblown sand from the bottom sill. The dog clearly caught some scent from whatever lay beyond. She remembered the disease carried forth by her father.

“Ahmad, perhaps you should pull Anjing back until we know what we’re facing.” She turned to Gray. “We should grab shovels. Along with the air masks and helmets.”

Knowing the risk they were exploring, the team had been supplied with special face masks, similar to those worn by firefighters. Only these were equipped with filters fine enough to be antibacterial.

Or anti-Archaeal in this case.

After a short time digging and clearing the door, they all slipped on their helmets and secured their masks. They took time to check one another’s seals. Only Seichan hung back. She carried her face mask by its straps. Her gaze remained on the skies, scanning the edges of the cliffs.

To guard their backs, she would remain behind with Ahmad and his dog.

Jane had almost forgotten about the threat of someone following them. On the way here, there had been no other strange sightings in the sky. Even now the desert remained quiet. The only sound was the haunting whistle of the wind through the rocks and the hissing sift of sand.

Of course, there was also the thumping of her heart.

But the hurried beat was not fueled by fear — well, not entirely at least — but rather by the thrill of discovery. She was on the verge of finding out what had happened to her father. She felt closer to him in this moment than she had in a long time. She imagined his excitement standing at this same threshold. She was sure his heart had been pounding as hard as hers was now.

Still, this moment of communion was tempered by a deep melancholy. She sensed the depth of her loss more intimately than ever before. Tears welled unexpectedly. She remembered Derek’s comment earlier, how grief caught you off guard.

With her features already covered by her mask’s clear face shield, she couldn’t even wipe away her tears. So she turned from the others until she could collect herself. It was the sandy scrape of metal that finally drew her attention back around.

Gray and Kowalski manhandled the door open.

As they stepped aside, Jane clicked on the battery-powered lamp atop her helmet and shone the beam down the dark tunnel beyond the threshold.

“Ready?” Gray asked her.

“More than ready.” She stepped forward. “I’ve been waiting two long years for this.”

8:40 A.M.

With Gray in the lead, Derek followed behind Jane, his lamp shining on her legs. The roof of the passage was low, requiring them to keep their helmets ducked. Behind him, Kowalski was bent nearly in half, hunching along in their wake like a gorilla.

The tunnel dropped at a slight angle, delving deeper under the surrounding hills.

Jane ran her gloved fingertips along the walls. “Man-made,” she called back to Derek, her voice muffled by her face mask. “Somebody excavated this out of the sandstone. I wonder how far it goes. Maybe it could even be another Derinkuyu.”

Derek remembered reading about the discovery of Derinkuyu, a subterranean city in the Anatolia region of Turkey. The newly unearthed metropolis dated back five thousand years, encompassing four miles of tunnels, caves, escape hatches, and homes, all on multiple levels. It was just more proof that the ancients could produce engineering marvels with their limited tools. The Pyramids at Giza were only the tips of what truly lay hidden underground throughout this region, waiting to be discovered.

He shone his light forward.

But what’s been excavated here? And why?

“It opens up ahead,” Gray called out.

In another few yards, the passageway dumped into a domed cavern, sculpted out of the rock.

As Jane followed Gray into the chamber, she stepped over a lip of stone at the threshold. She straightened and gasped, all but twirling in place, casting her light all around.

Derek joined her a moment later and discovered the reason for her shock. “My god…”

“It’s amazing,” Jane murmured.

Derek looked down at his feet. The lip of stone at his toes was just that — a lip. It curved delicately around them, sheltering a row of stone teeth, a lower arcade of incisors and molars sculpted out of the sandy floor. A few were cracked and broken. The damage looked recent, triggering a reflexive stitch of anger at the appalling abuse to this archaeological treasure.

He cast his beam around the room, spotlighting its features. A matching lip and curve of teeth hung overhead. The domed ceiling was ridged like a hard palate. Under his feet, the floor arched up in the gentle wave of a sculpted tongue.

Kowalski stretched his back, looking around with a grimace. “Let’s hope we don’t get chewed up and spat back out.”

Jane took slow steps, exploring everything. “The details are anatomically stunning.” She pointed her light to a protruding stump of rock. “That must have been where a uvula once hung. And over there, those protrusions on the walls to either side must be tonsils.”

“Looks like the left one had a tonsillectomy,” Kowalski said, noting more damage there.

Derek stepped forward, illuminating the back of the chamber. Two tunnels led out from here. He knew what they must represent.

“The esophagus and trachea,” he murmured.

Indeed the surfaces of one looked smooth and muscular, while the other was ribbed like the cartilage rings found along a human airway. He could even make out vague depictions of a larynx past the triangular flap of an epiglottis on the floor.

“What is all this?” Kowalski asked.

Gray stood a few feet away, shining his light along an arch of the roof, where the hard palate became the soft. “There’s writing here. Hieroglyphics.”

Derek joined him. Amid all the artistry displayed here, he had missed this detail. Inscribed into the stone archway were three rows of glyphs.

Jane ran her light along the first line.

Derek translated, “Who comes to the one calling him…”

“I guess that would be us.” Kowalski looked around at the giant mouth. “But who is he? Whose mouth are we in?”

“That’s answered in the next two rows,” Jane said, pointing to the hieroglyphs across the arch. “They’re the name of an Egyptian god written two different ways.”

“What god?” Gray asked.

“He’s a late pantheon deity,” Jane explained. “Named Tutu. He was originally the protector of tombs.”

“Great,” Kowalski grumbled.

Jane ignored him. “Later he came to represent the guardian of sleep, the protector of dreams.”

“Also the master of demons,” Derek reminded her.

Kowalski fixed his mask more securely. “Just gets better and better.”

“If this place is truly the source of the pathogen,” Jane noted, “that disease could be the very demon this sculpted representation of Tutu is guarding.”

Derek glanced over to the tunnels leading deeper, picturing an entire body sprawled under these hills, a subterranean god, sleeping for millennia, dreaming all of this time, protecting something dangerous.

But Jane’s explanation bothered him. He sensed there was more going on here. Especially since one detail about this was distinctly wrong.

He pointed it out. “Jane, look at the last glyph, the one of the seated figure. Normally the name Tutu ends with the figure of a lion or a man.”

She nodded. “Because he’s always depicted as a beast with the head of a man and a body of a lion.”

“Exactly.” Derek pointed up. “But at the end of the second row. That’s a woman, not a man.”

Jane stepped closer. “You’re right.”

“What are you talking about?” Gray asked.

Derek pulled his iPad from his pack to show him. Plus he wanted to take photos to record all of this. He pulled up a catalog of hieroglyphics and showed Gray the two symbols for male and female.

“See how the man sits cross-legged with an arm raised, whereas the woman kneels demurely.” He pointed to the last glyph. “Clearly that’s a woman.”

Gray frowned behind his mask. “But why’s that important?”

Derek shrugged, giving a shake of his head. “I don’t know.”

“Wait.” Jane touched Derek’s shoulder, her voice nearly breathless. “Remember that sketch in my father’s journal, of the Egyptian oil vessel.”

“The aryballos. The one with the double heads.” Then he saw it, too. “My god, you’re right.”

“What are you talking about?” Gray asked.

Derek pulled up the picture of the vessel, glad he had taken the time to digitize Harold’s old journal. “This was the talisman that was given to Livingstone as a gift for saving a tribesman’s son.”

“It’s also the vessel that was said to hold water from the Nile — back when the river turned bloody,” he explained. “After it was opened at the British Museum, the pathogen sealed up inside killed over twenty people.”

Gray nodded. “But somehow the outbreak was kept from spreading across England.”

“And maybe the same happened during the time of Moses,” Jane said. “Maybe the ancients found a cure and somehow my nineteenth-century colleagues replicated it. The answer may lie here.”

“Why do you say that?” Gray asked.

Derek answered. “Look at the two heads profiled on the vessel. One of a lion, the other of a woman.” He pointed up to the last two rows of hieroglyphics. “And notice the two spellings of Tutu’s name. One ends in a lion. The other in a kneeling woman.”

“Same as the vessel,” Jane said. “It can’t be a coincidence. The aryballos must have come from here. It’s further proof that the source of the pathogen must lie below — and maybe its cure.”

Derek noticed Gray’s face. Even behind the protective shield, it was plain the man was deep in thought. Then his eyes widened with some realization.

“I wonder…” Gray murmured to himself.

“What is it?” Derek asked.

He shook his head and swung his lamp’s beam to the two passages leading deeper. “We should keep going.”

They all turned toward the challenge.

“But which way?” Jane asked. “Esophagus or trachea?”

She ducked deeper into the pharynx to get a better look at their choices — then craned her neck, looking straight up.

“Jane?”

“There’s an opening.” As she stood, her head vanished into the roof. She shuffled her feet to turn fully around. “My god. Come see this.”

She shifted to the side to allow Derek and Gray to crowd next to her.

Straightening at her shoulder, Derek poked his head up into a small cavern. The entrance into it was sealed with a clear plastic tarp that had been duct-taped in place, but their lights pierced this protective veil.

“It’s a cranial cavity,” Jane said.

“She’s right.” Derek noted how the walls inside had been carved to mimic the folds of a brain, showing even the divisions of its two hemispheres along the domed roof.

Gray shifted his light lower. “Look to the right and left.”

His beam illuminated rows of small cubbies dug out of the rock. The niches held grapefruit-sized examples of Egyptian pottery. Some had been shattered in place long ago, leaving behind piles of broken shards. Other cubbies were empty. But those that remained were all a familiar shape and size: sealed jars bearing the profiles of a lion and a woman.

“They’re identical to Livingstone’s aryballos,” Jane said, fixing her light on one of the empty niches. “This must be where his vessel had come from. Maybe it was stolen from here long ago.”

“No wonder someone sealed this place up.” Gray flashed his beam across several piles of broken pottery on the cavern floor.

A few looked freshly shattered.

Had there been an accident?

Jane turned to Derek. “For this collection to be housed here, it suggests the ancient must have known the pathogen sealed in those jars attacked the brain. Why else store it here?”

“You may be right.”

Jane sank back down. “And if they knew that, maybe they knew more.”

Derek followed her. “Like a possible cure.”

She nodded as Gray joined them. She faced the two tunnels leading deeper. “Whatever else they were hiding must lie below.” She posed her earlier question again. “But to find it, which path do we take? Esophagus or trachea?”

Derek shifted his beam to the damaged left tonsil. “It looks like there was more traffic in and out of the airway.” He pointed out the evident trampling in the trachea compared to the esophagus. “So I say we ignore Robert Frost and take the road most traveled.”

Gray nodded. “Let’s move out.”

Only Kowalski seemed disgruntled by this decision. “Yeah, let’s go deeper into the belly of a demon-wrestling god. How could that possibly go wrong?”

16

“Ready?” Painter asked.

Kat nodded and shifted her chair back from the table, praying the director’s plan would work. “Let’s get the ball rolling.”

After arriving at Aurora Station, she and Painter had sought to get the lay of the land. They started in the communal dining room over cups of coffee. The latter was a necessity at this late hour. Though she had slept briefly on the plane ride from D.C., her internal clock was all wonky. The caffeine had helped steady her focus.

She would have preferred more time to prepare, but the front edge of the storm would be passing over Ellesmere Island within the hour — which narrowed their window of opportunity. If they were going to attempt this rescue in time to be evacuated by the forces at Thule Air Base, they had to beat the storm.

In other words, now or never.

She eyed her target, waiting for the right moment.

After fueling up on coffee, she and Painter had moved on to the station’s recreation area. They had picked a spot neighboring a trio of pool tables. A set of double doors to the right led into a dark movie theater. There was also a gym on the other side, and visible through a window on the far side, a swimming pool glowed a soft blue. A single swimmer had been doing slow laps for the past twenty minutes, reminding Kat of a restless tiger in a cage.

Having trained in intelligence operations, she knew enough psychology to recognize the signs of stress in the handful of base personnel who wandered through the center in the wee hours of the morning. The causes were easy enough to identify. The inhabitants here were isolated, cut off from family and friends. Add to that the bipolar months of endless night or eternal day, which would strain anyone’s natural circadian rhythm — no matter how much of the world’s best coffee was supplied to them. Also the station was clearly run around the clock, offering little relief to their daily schedule.

She gave her head a sad shake.

All the fake plasma windows looking out onto sunlit beaches and happy pastel-colored walls could not offset human nature.

As expected, the worst afflicted were those on this swing shift. She suspected the individuals assigned this duty were people who did not work well with others, the most antisocial.

And our best targets.

She had selected a broad-shouldered hulk of a brute, who from the grime permanently etched under his nails likely worked in a mechanical bay. He was shooting pool with some buddies in green coveralls, all part of the same work crew. They were blowing off steam after a shift. A row of Foster beer cans lining the edge of the table had been growing steadily longer. Her target glanced her way a few times, whispering every now and again to his mates, often with chuckles.

She imagined there were not that many women working up here.

She waited until the man headed away from the pool table, aiming for one of the bathrooms. His path would take him past their table. As he approached, she stood, telling Painter she was going to the restroom, then timed her turn to bump hard into the large gentleman. She purposefully struggled with him in confusion — then jumped back with a look of fear and affront on her face.

She swore at him and crossed an arm over her chest. She looked to Painter, who was already on his feet. “He… he just grabbed my breast.”

Painter leaped forward, while the man lifted his palms, unsure what was happening. “What do you think you’re doing?” Painter yelled at him.

The man tried to deny her accusation, but he fumbled for words, both inebriated and confused. Painter shoved him — hard. He crashed into the next table, which raised some chuckles from his bunch.

As expected, with his dignity assaulted and too addled to think clearly, the target swung at Painter. The director ducked the fist, and the fight was on. Chairs scattered, punches were thrown, and soon the pair were rolling across the floor. The giant’s mates hung back, most clearly believing the wiry stranger was no match for their friend.

Kat grew concerned of the same.

Where the hell is—?

The doors behind her burst open. Three men in black uniforms and caps barreled inside. In the lead was their true target, the spider they had hoped to lure from his web. Anton Mikhailov charged forward, his pale face flushed, making his tattoo stand out angrily. Apparently he saw no reason to cover it up here.

“Stop this right now,” he boomed out, his Russian accent thick with fury.

They had anticipated Simon Hartnell would have ordered his head of security to watch over the DARPA investigators, especially when they were out of their rooms. All it took was a little coaxing to get him to join them.

His two men rushed into the fray and tried to pull the fighters apart.

Painter took that moment to demonstrate how much he had been reining in his pugilistic skills. He punched his opponent twice in the face, a roundhouse followed by an uppercut square to the chin. The giant’s head cracked back, and he slumped to the floor, out cold.

Painter stood, shaking a bloody fist.

Kat held back a grin.

Never should’ve doubted you.

“What is this all about?” Anton demanded.

Painter turned to him, his eyes flashing. “What sort of place are you running? This man assaulted my companion.” He waved to the others around the pool table. “Fat lot of good they did to stop him.”

His insult was sufficient to tweak the others into angry protests.

Kat backed toward Anton, eyeing them. “Can… can you please take me to my room?”

“Of course.” He waved to his men. “Haul him out of here. We’ll deal with this later.”

“Thank you,” Kat said, feigning great relief, shaking slightly for effect.

Anton led them out of the recreation area and across the communal dining hall to the corridor leading to their room. “I apologize for what happened,” he said, stalking stiffly before them. “There will be repercussions. I promise you.”

When they reached the door to her room, he used his own keycard to open her door. Clearly he had an all-access pass.

Good.

Kat positioned herself to shield what was to come from the hall camera. She did not know if anyone was still manning the security station, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

As the door swung open, Painter shoved Anton into the room and followed on his heels. Kat came behind them, closing the door.

As Anton turned, Painter pointed his SIG Sauer P229 at the man’s nose. “Hello, Anton Mikhailov.”

The man stiffened in surprise, both at the threat and the use of his true name, but he quickly composed himself.

“What do you want?” he spat back.

Painter cocked the hammer. “You’re going to take us to Safia al-Maaz.”

“What do you think?” Safia asked Rory.

His face filled her laptop’s screen as he leaned closer to his webcam. “You may be on to something.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry to wake you, but I couldn’t sleep after learning the mummified woman might be Jewish. I tossed and turned — then it struck me that maybe we were looking at this all wrong.”

She had the reconstruction of the tattooed hieroglyphics up on her screen. “The challenge of deciphering what was written on her body was difficult enough with the missing sections and glyphs. Still, some of the intact sections should’ve been readable, but we were assuming she was Egyptian.”

Rory sat straighter. “And we know that’s not true now.”

She pulled up onto the screen what she had been working on all night, wanting Rory as a sounding board.

“We know that Egyptians wrote hieroglyphs in two ways,” she said. “Some images were simply representational, like a symbol for a cat means ‘cat.’ But sometimes scribes would phonetically spell the same out. In the ancient Egyptian language, the spoken word for cat is miw.”

Rory nodded. “Like the sound a cat makes.”

She smiled. “Exactly. So they’d use three symbols to spell the word. Like this.”

She brought up the two examples.

“But if this woman was Jewish and spoke an early form of Hebrew, maybe we need to rethink how we’re reading her hieroglyphics. Instead of phonetically spelling out Egyptian words, maybe she was using the only script she knew to spell out her native tongue.”

“Early Hebrew.” Rory pinched his brows together. “But why wouldn’t she inscribe herself with Hebrew? We know that written language goes back eight thousand years. And from the radiocarbon dating we got back, we know the mummy is from around 1300 B.C.”

“Maybe she was raised in Egypt and taught to write hieroglyphics. It might be the only written language she knew. Which got me thinking.”

“About what?”

“What if she’s descended from those who fled the plague during the time of Moses, part of a lost Jewish tribe who escaped south rather than east with the rest of their people? That could explain why her group knew to write in hieroglyphics but spoke early Hebrew.”

Rory leaned closer, clearly growing excited. “If that group was taught to write, which was rare, it would suggest they were scribes.”

She nodded. “A sect that maintains records. So perhaps they sought to preserve knowledge of this plague.”

“And maybe how to stop it,” Rory whispered. “We could be close to the answer.”

Safia knew her primary role here was to follow the thread of history to a possible cure for whatever Harold brought out of the desert. While she worked her angle, other researchers at the station tackled the same question through scientific means. But she still didn’t know what Simon Hartnell wanted with this cure. When she first met him, he claimed her efforts could save the world.

If so, then why all the bloodshed and secrecy?

Rory drew her back to the topic at hand. “But can we be sure we’re on the right track?”

As support, Safia brought more of her work up onto the screen.

“These three glyphs were marked across her forehead, about where her hairline might have been. They were encircled in a cartouche, as if important. But the three letters — S, B, and H — are gibberish in the Egyptian language, but what if instead those letters spelled out her name phonetically?” She pronounced it aloud. “Sah-bah.”

“Why is that significant?”

“Sabah is a Hebrew name derived from either Sheba or perhaps Bathsheba.”

“Like from the Bible.”

She nodded. She had her own connection to that heritage, but that was a long story for another time. So she continued, “The typical meaning for that name is daughter of the oath… which can be interpreted as someone who is good at keeping secrets.”

“Which she certainly is.” Rory suddenly cracked a wide yawn. “But maybe we need to continue this in the morning.”

She grinned. “You’re right. Get some sleep, and I’ll try to do the same.”

They said their good nights, and Safia reluctantly closed her computer. She wasn’t sure she could sleep, but she should try. She stood, stretched, and took a step toward her bed — then froze when she heard the rasp of the door bolt being pulled.

She turned, taking a step back, expecting the worst.

The door opened, and Anton entered, his face nearly purplish with fury.

Her heart pounded in her throat, panicked.

What did I do wrong?

Then suddenly he was shoved from behind. Two figures followed him into her cell. One was a stranger, but the other made her want to sob with relief.

“Painter…”

Painter left Kat to guard Anton and strode forward. He embraced Safia, feeling her shake in his arms. “Are you okay?”

“Better now,” she mumbled.

“Then how about we get you out of here?”

“That sounds splendid.”

He let her go and guided her to the door.

“Wait.” She broke away and grabbed a laptop from a small desk. “What about Rory?”

Kat glanced hard her way but kept her SIG Sauer pointed at Anton’s neck. “Rory McCabe? He’s here?”

Safia nodded. “A prisoner like me. It’s a long story.”

Painter scowled. No wonder Anton had been willing to bring them here, even at gunpoint. The bastard had been holding an ace up his sleeve.

“Do you know where he’s being held?” Kat asked.

“I… I don’t know. They always brought me to my room first.”

Painter swung toward Anton. “Looks like we have another stop to make before we leave.”

Anton glanced to a camera mounted on the room’s ceiling, then smiled coldly. “No.”

His expression told Painter everything. This had been his plan all along. A delaying tactic. They had marched Anton here with a pistol pressed into his lower back, avoiding cameras as much as possible.

But now?

Painter crossed to him, but Anton lifted his chin, ready to take whatever abuse was to be inflicted. But Painter had other intentions.

When you have a crap hand, your best move is to bluff.

“How much do you love your sister?” he asked. “And we know her name isn’t Velma.”

Anton’s eyes narrowed. Painter had already demonstrated knowledge of Anton’s real name, so it was easy enough to get the man to believe he had the same intel on his sister.

Painter pressed his case. “You both clearly share a connection… or at least, the same taste in tattoos.” He touched his own cheek. “Did you get them before or after the Guild hired you?”

Anton stiffened, clearly unsettled by this intimate knowledge of their past.

Now to drive it home.

“We have your sister in custody,” he lied. “Interpol picked her up an hour ago. That’s why we made our move just now. If you want to see her alive again, then you’ll take us to Rory and escort us to the nearest exit.”

Past a window in Safia’s cell, storm clouds had swallowed the sun as the weather front moved over the island. Once out there, Painter planned on using his satellite phone to call in the forces waiting at Thule. If there was a problem, the backup plan was to commandeer a vehicle and take off into the neighboring icy mountains to await rescue, using the storm as cover.

But all those plans hinged on how much Anton loved his sister.

The man stared daggers at Painter, then finally heaved out a growled sigh. “He is not far.”

Kat poked Anton with her pistol. “Then show us.”

Painter opened the door, checked the hallway, then marched out with Safia beside him. He kept his pistol at his thigh. “Stay close.”

Kat followed with Anton. She kept hold of the back of his belt with her gun against the base of his spine. They headed over two passageways and around a corner. It truly wasn’t far.

Anton nodded to a door. “In there.”

Painter used the all-access keycard he had pilfered from Anton and swiped open the lock. He then pulled the bolt and hauled open the door.

The room was dark. A figure jolted from a bed against the wall. “Who… what is going on?”

Safia stepped forward. “Rory, it’s me.”

“Safia?”

She quickly explained as the young man’s gaze shifted all around, struggling to catch up. “Come,” she said, waving to him. “We have to hurry.”

Rory had already gained his feet and was tugging a pair of coveralls over his boxers. As he struggled to dress, he looked at her. “But Safia…”

“What?”

“The mummy. It’s the only hope for a cure. If what you described about the plague spreading in Egypt and back home…”

Safia turned to Painter. “How bad has it gotten?”

Kat answered, “Bad.”

“And likely to get worse,” Painter added, remembering Dr. Kano’s warning of the secondary genetic damage that could last generations.

Safia turned to Rory and lifted the laptop clutched to her chest. “I have the data we already collected.”

Rory looked scared, divided between wanting to run and knowing what they might leave behind. “But you know it’s incomplete.”

Safia turned to Painter. “He’s right. If they destroy the mummy, any hope for a cure could be lost.”

Painter didn’t fully understand what she was talking about, but he trusted the certainty in her eyes. “What can we do? It’s not like we can haul a mummified body out with us.”

She looked crestfallen. “It’s also contaminated, like Professor McCabe’s body. They have it locked in a biolab.”

“Then we leave it,” Kat said. “We can secure it once Colonel Wycroft’s forces arrive.”

Rory pulled on a set of boots. “I read the protocol,” he said. “At the first sign of a security breach, they’re going to incinerate the lab.”

Painter didn’t doubt such a failsafe had been established. The enemy had done the same with the professor’s body back in the United Kingdom, firebombing the research lab where it had been held. Anton also offered further confirmation by sneering at Rory, furious at him for revealing this detail.

“We’ll only have this one opportunity,” Safia said.

Rory offered a suggestion, heaving to his feet. “The 3-D scanner.”

Safia straightened. “My god, that’s right. We left the mummy in a topographical scanner. To complete a detailed intradermal map of the body’s entire surface.” She checked her watch. “It should be done by now.”

Rory nodded. “If we can pull the results and take them with us…”

Safia winced. “That means going back to the biolab.”

Kat glanced at Painter and lifted a brow. “So one more stop?”

“We’ll have to be quick.”

She faced Safia. “How far away is it?”

“Not too far, but it’s down three levels.”

So back into the heart of the station.

Kat shared a worried look with Painter. “Maybe it’s best if we don’t lead a parade down there.” She eyed Anton, plainly not trusting his cooperation for much longer.

“I can take Rory,” Painter said. “You all hole up here.”

Kat shook her head. “Two women would pose less of a threat. Especially if one is wearing a security uniform and escorting a female prisoner.”

Painter wanted to argue but recognized the advantage to Kat’s plan. And she certainly looked unwilling to bend on this point.

Safia stepped forward. “I can do this.”

With the matter decided, Painter pointed his weapon at Anton. “Strip.”

In moments, Kat had changed into his black coveralls. She tucked up her hair and pulled on his security cap. She then turned to Safia. “Ready?”

Though Safia eyes shone with fear, she nodded.

Kat led her to the door. She checked to make sure the way was clear, then ushered her outside. Before leaving, she glanced back. “I’ll keep her safe.”

Painter nodded and swallowed hard.

She closed the door behind her.

Painter kept his weapon leveled at Anton. In boxers and bare feet, the man looked less of a threat, but Painter refused to let down his guard. He kept Anton standing against the wall with his hands up. Those cold eyes ignored him, tracking instead Rory as he paced anxiously back and forth by the door.

Finally that gaze settled back on him. “You will never get away from here,” Anton said, his accent heavy with disgust. “Both your women will suffer.”

“We’ll see about—”

Painter sensed the threat a moment too late. A shift of shadows, a scrape of metal on metal. He turned to see Rory swinging a desk lamp at his head. The heavy base caught him square on the temple. Pain and bright light flared across his skull. He fell down to a knee.

Anton leaped from the wall, grabbed his arm, and twisted the pistol from his grip.

Painter toppled to his side, his head still ringing.

With the stolen gun pointed at his new prisoner, Anton reached and touched Rory on the arm, almost tenderly. “Well done, my tigryenok.”

Anton passed Rory the pistol, then efficiently patted down Painter’s body, removing his satellite phone. Once satisfied there were no other weapons or means of communication, he stood and backed toward the door.

Rory’s expression was apologetic. “You don’t understand what’s at stake,” he tried to explain, as Anton drew him out of the room.

As the pair left, bolting the door behind them, Painter did understand one thing.

It seemed Anton had had more than one ace up his sleeve all along.

With a groan, he remembered Kat’s last words, hoping they proved true.

I’ll keep her safe.

From the safety of the anteroom, Kat watched Safia enter the secure lab. Suited up and dragging an air hose, she looked as if she were wading into the depths of a toxic sea.

The two of them had wasted no time getting down here. Luckily they had not run into anyone in the halls at this lonely hour, and Anton’s passkey had gained them easy entry into the deserted lab. The smoothness of everything set Kat’s teeth on edge, even here in the locked room.

C’mon, Safia, hurry up.

Despite the urgency twanging her every nerve, Kat recognized that Safia had to follow proper safety protocols. The woman stepped over to a computer station with cables running to four laser cameras that looked like long-barreled pistols, all pointing toward a diminutive, shrunken figure seated with her head bowed on a black throne.

On the way down here, Safia had told her the body had been recovered from a dig in the Sudan, from wherever Professor McCabe had vanished. She had been assigned to learn this ancient woman’s secret. The enemy believed her body held a possible clue to the cure for the pandemic spreading around the world. Safia also believed that Simon Hartnell wanted this knowledge for a very different reason — but what that might be remained a mystery.

Safia tapped at the keyboard and a tray opened to the side. She removed the silvery disk holding the data of the scan and slipped it into a plastic pouch. She had warned Kat that the pouch would also have to be bathed in a disinfectant dunk tank before being taken out. Preparing for that, Safia sought to seal the bag, but her gloved fingers hampered her efforts.

C’mon…

Sudden knocking on the door made Kat jump. A familiar voice called from the hallway, breathless and scared.

“Hello, hello!”

Kat stalked to the door. “Rory?”

“Thank god! Hurry!” He sounded winded, like he’d run the entire way. “Anton attacked your friend. I left them fighting. We need to go now!”

“Safia’s still working. I’ll let you in.”

She unlocked the door with Anton’s card and yanked the door hard. Caught off guard while leaning there, Rory stumbled inside. Kat helped him the rest of the way by grabbing the collar of his coverall and tossing him behind her. She then swung low across the threshold with her pistol raised. As she feared, she spotted a shadowy figure down the hall and shot wildly.

A pained gasp followed — accompanied by return fire.

Rounds shot over her head; she heard glass shatter behind her, and Rory cried out. She kept her position but dropped flat to the ground, refusing to give up the advantage of her sheltered position. The gunman, exposed out in the open hallway, was forced to retreat. He laid down a protective barrage until he reached a far corner and slipped out of view. She noted the thick blood trail leading there.

Satisfied for the moment, she rolled inside. As she slammed the door, an alarm Klaxon erupted outside, echoing through the station.

Kat shifted the smoking muzzle of her gun toward Rory. When he had arrived a moment ago, she suspected something was amiss, especially after his frantic assertion that Anton had gotten the better of Painter. That seemed unlikely, so she had acted accordingly. If she had been wrong, she would’ve apologized later for her rough treatment of him.

No apology was necessary now.

She stared at Rory. His act had been too good to be forced. He must have been playing them all along — including taking advantage of Safia’s sympathy. Even a moment ago, he must have been trying to lure them out of this highly sensitive room before they barricaded themselves inside.

Rory ignored the threat of Kat’s weapon. Instead, he stared in horror at the biolab. Only now did she note the two bullet holes cracked through the window.

Rory took a step back. “Oh, no…”

She stood, fearing the worst.

She looked into the next room. Safia was still on her feet — but one of the stray rounds had shredded through her hood, missing her head by inches. The same couldn’t be said of the seated mummy. Its desiccated skull had exploded, struck by the same round or another. As Safia turned toward them, gore from the blowback coated her damaged faceplate.

Rory called to her, pointing. “Safia! Get in the chemical shower!”

Kat was surprised by the depth of the traitor’s concern and reinforced it. “Do it! Hurry!”

Her sharp shout snapped Safia out of her shock and got her moving.

Rory turned to Kat and pointed above the damaged window to a timer counting down from two minutes. “With the lab’s seal broken, the automatic failsafe has engaged. It allows two minutes for evacuation, then everything’s incinerated in there.”

Already metal gates were lowering over the window.

“Is there a way to stop it?”

“Maybe, but I don’t know how.”

Inside the lab, Safia had fled to the shower station. She slapped her palm on the emergency rinse. Disinfectant foam and spray swamped over her suit and the plastic pouch in her other hand. She waited until the grime was washed away, then stepped into the small changing room. She stripped off the suit in a panic, still wearing her gray coveralls beneath.

Behind her, the door into the lab was being sealed with steel shutters.

Safia glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide with fear, but contamination was the least of the pressing dangers.

Rory backed away as Safia shouldered through the last door to join them. His face was a mask of guilt. “You weren’t supposed to be hurt. He promised.”

Safia looked between the weapon in Kat’s hand and Rory. “What’s happening?”

“We’re getting out of here,” she answered and steadied her gun on Rory. “And you’re coming with us.”

Kat drew them all to the door. She checked the hallway. She didn’t know if Anton was still hiding around the corner or if he had sought medical attention. Either way, she knew reinforcements were likely converging here. Her only hope was to take advantage of the momentary chaos, praying a majority of Anton’s crew had been off duty at this late hour, buying her an extra minute of lead time.

As an additional precaution, she grabbed a fistful of Rory’s collar and positioned him between her and the far corner.

Rory noted blood trail on the floor. “Anton…”

Kat motioned Safia to get behind her. Using Rory as a human shield, she retreated. She had the schematic of the station fixed in her head. There was an underground garage two flights above their heads.

When she was halfway down the hall, a low roaring sounded through the wall. She pictured jets of fire sweeping the lab and shied away from that side.

Time to go.

She rushed them toward an elevator bay at the end of the hallway, punched the button, then piled into the cage as it opened. A quick ascent and the doors opened into a cavernous garage space. She hurried toward a row of parked Sno-Cats. Their square cabins sat atop treaded tracks, looked like miniature tanks.

She picked one and ordered Rory, “Get in back.”

Cowed by her weapon, he obeyed.

Kat passed her gun to Safia. “Climb in front but watch him. If he even breathes suspiciously, shoot him.”

Though still plainly in shock, she nodded.

Kat hurried to the other side and found keys already hanging from the ignition. She was not surprised. Who would be foolish enough to steal a vehicle up here?

That would be me.

Kat got behind the wheel, started the engine, and jerked the vehicle into gear. The treads ground along the concrete floor. She turned toward a ramp leading to a sealed garage door. A pole with a keypad stood at the foot of the ramp. Once she reached there, she willed Anton’s keycard to still work and waved it over the reader.

A welcome grinding of a motor followed.

She sighed with relief — but they weren’t out of danger yet.

As the door opened, winds whipped into the garage. A steady howling pierced the sealed cabin of the Sno-Cat. The storm had finally swallowed the island. Dark clouds roiled overhead, low enough that she swore the roof of the vehicle brushed through them as she trundled out into the storm.

She set a course to the northeast, aiming for the ice-capped mountains of neighboring Quttinirpaaq National Park. In less than a hundred yards, the isolated station vanished into the darkness behind her.

Still, she searched in the rearview mirror, watching for pursuers who she knew would come. But for the moment, a larger fear weighed upon her.

What would happen to Painter?

17

My god…

Stunned, Gray stepped into the stone thorax of the sleeping god. The others followed, casting beams of light from their helmets across the cavernous space. Surprised gasps rose behind him, but he could not rip his gaze from the sights ahead.

The chamber could easily hold a small baseball stadium. Giant stone ribs had been carved along the walls. They curved upward to connect to a row of thoracic vertebrae along the roof. The arch of the spine ran from one end of the cavity to the other and vanished into the far wall, which was bowed in the shape of a human diaphragm.

“The details are stunning,” Jane murmured. “Look at the striations between the ribs.”

“Intercostal muscles,” Gray commented, as if giving an anatomy lesson.

Derek shone his light along a shoulder-high wall that divided the room in half. “That must represent the chest’s mediastinum.” He lifted his beam higher, illuminating a cloudlike formation topping one section. “They even included a thymus gland.”

But none of these anatomical details were the main attraction.

As they continued deeper into the room, they were all drawn to the most singular sight in the entire chamber. In the center, a massive stone heart looked as if it hung from the roof by a tangle of muscular blood vessels, including a massive aortic arch. Each of its four chambers was meticulously carved, covered with branching carotid arteries.

Though the entire sculpture appeared weightless, the bottom of the heart rested atop a section of floor fashioned to resemble a sternum.

“There’s a door into the left ventricle,” Jane noted as she drew nearer.

Gray spotted ancient bricks stacked to the side. They must have been used to seal that doorway long ago. But what was hidden inside?

This question drew them all forward.

Derek shone his light through the small doorway. “It’s empty.”

Gray was disappointed but not surprised. Despite the wonders found here, the place had clearly been ransacked. From the condition of the debris left behind, the theft had been recent. Across the floor were tables and benches. A row of bunk beds lined the ribbed wall.

Someone had been camping inside here — and likely for a long time.

The wonder dimmed in Jane’s eyes, replaced with a haunted look. “This must be where my father was held.” She turned in a slow circle, as if searching for him. “But why?”

Gray studied what was left, trying to fill in the blanks. Tall pole lamps dotted the floor, while elsewhere strings of electrical lights ran up the wall. He followed the wires to where a row of generators must have once stood. One table held the smashed remains of a desktop computer. He absently wondered if its hard drive was still recoverable, but he doubted whoever had cleared out of here would have been so lax.

Nearby, a row of bookshelves had been emptied, with the last case toppled over on its back. He imagined ghostly researchers moving throughout here, working on the chamber’s mysteries.

Now they were all gone after scrubbing the place.

Farther along the chamber, Kowalski crouched by the wall. “Guys, look at this.”

They converged on his location.

Kowalski probed his beam into a hole at the base of two ribs. Gray had noted similar openings on both sides of the chamber. Again small stone bricks were scattered at the threshold.

As they joined him, Kowalski shifted his light to a niche above the hole. Inside stood a small wooden elephant with a curled trunk and a pair of yellowed slivers for tusks. It was beautifully wrought with some of the original bark left in place to look like the pachyderm’s rough skin.

“What is it?” Gray asked.

Jane leaned closer. “It looks to be a small pot. You can see the line along the beast’s back that must form the top.”

“Can we take it?” Kowalski asked, looking avidly at it. Gray knew the big man had a fascination with elephants.

Jane reached for it, but Derek held her back. “It might not be safe.”

She scowled at him. “My father would surely have examined it. If it was dangerous, I think he would have sealed it in plastic, like we saw with the skull.” She waved to similar niches above the other low holes. “Plus this isn’t the only one.”

“Still, it could be contaminated.”

She sighed and straightened, heeding his warning, and left it alone.

Kowalski looked no happier.

“What about the hole below it?” Gray asked, redirecting everyone’s attention.

Derek crouched, shining his light inside. “I think it’s an old tomb.”

Gray peered inside. The chamber was narrow but deep. Definitely could hold a body. Only the walls of the tomb were blackened and covered in ash. He also spotted shards of burnt bone.

This desecration looked recent.

A red gasoline jug lay nearby, supporting this assessment.

Derek came to the same conclusion and cast his gaze to the other open tombs. “They incinerated all the bodies. Destroying everything.”

Not everything.

Gray pictured the scroll of tattooed skin in the test tube. Had the professor cut it off one of the entombed mummies in order to preserve it?

Derek stood up. “But why did they cremate all of the bodies? Because of a fear of contagion? Or were they just burning bridges before they left?”

Jane glanced over to the center of the room. “I also saw some charcoal around the base of the heart, but it looked from a much older fire.”

Curious, Gray headed back over.

The heart must be important.

Once there, he ducked through the low doorway and crouched inside. Its inner surfaces were pristine, decorated with a flock of butterflies etched into the stone. The work looked delicate, almost feminine.

Something strange caught his eye.

“Jane, what do you make of this?” he called out.

She crowded in with him, followed by Derek. As she looked at the walls, she accidentally stepped on a potsherd. She winced and tenderly collected it from the floor, shining her light on its dusty blue surface.

Derek looked over her shoulder. “It’s a shard of lapis lazuli.”

“Maybe from a bowl.” She glanced around the chamber. “Lapis lazuli was a stone revered by the Egyptians for its magical properties.”

Her gaze again was captured by the decoration on the walls. She swept her light all around.

“It’s beautiful…” she murmured. “I’ve always loved butterflies. To the Egyptians, the image symbolized transformation. The caterpillar becoming the butterfly.”

Gray studied the space, wondering about the chamber’s purpose, noting the clues left here.

Magic and transformation.

He sensed he was close to something important, but maybe it wasn’t for him to solve. He centered his light on the one last strange detail here. It was the reason he had called Jane inside.

She looked to where he pointed and gasped, falling back a step.

One of the butterflies had been circled — with Jane’s name written there.

“My father must have done this,” she murmured. Her fingers lifted to touch the mark, to make this connection to the past, but she hesitated. “Why would he do it?”

Derek tried to answer. “The nomads who found Harold mentioned he kept whispering your name over and over.” He touched her shoulder. “Maybe he hoped you would find this.”

Jane stepped back, looking to Derek, then Gray. “I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps your father thought you could solve this,” Gray offered. “At least, with enough time.”

He wondered if this was the same reason the enemy had been hounding Jane, trying to grab her. If the professor had left this clue behind, they might believe she knew something about it, a way to unravel this mystery.

Instead, Jane only looked more scared and confused.

“Perhaps we should keep searching,” Gray said. “There may be other clues.”

They all exited, but Gray did not hold out much hope. He sensed anything truly important would have been hidden here, in the literal heart of this stone god.

He was also keenly aware of the passage of time, like a pressure building around him.

We’ve already been down here too long.

The only warning was a trickle of pebbles.

The thin flow dribbled down the cliff on her left side. Seichan ignored it and continued riding the Suzuki down the throat of the cleft. She was headed back to the bowl that hid the entrance to the caverns under the surrounding hills. Forty-five minutes ago, she had borrowed Ahmad’s bike and began a canvass of the immediate area, sweeping back and forth along the fissure that led into the valley.

She had left the boy and his dog inside the parked Unimog with orders to hit the horn at the first sign of any trouble. She also left him with a radio and additional instructions.

She could not be certain her group had been followed, so she simply assumed it was true and planned accordingly. She had made herself the obvious target, drawing the attention of any hidden eyes. She let them see it was only the boy in the truck. She wanted them to lower their guard while they assessed the situation, to recognize the others had gone below.

Especially Jane McCabe.

Seichan imagined the young woman remained the primary target, and the enemy would waste minutes strategizing.

In turn, she used the passing time to acquaint herself with Ahmad’s bike, testing the traction of the rear tire’s paddled tread, discovering it was perfect for sand, less so for rock. Her only accommodation to the fall of pebbles was to shift closer to the same cliff, making an overhead shot more difficult.

She showed no other reaction. Even her heartbeat didn’t change. If anything, she was relieved to see rock-hard evidence of the ghosts haunting these hills. Knowing they were truly here, she settled in, savoring the trickle of adrenaline.

Her vision sharpened.

She could guess the enemy’s plan easily enough. In this situation, the only smart play would be to wait for their targets to show themselves and ambush them in the open, especially if they wanted to take Jane McCabe alive.

Seichan could not allow that.

With her face wrapped in a scarf, she whispered to activate the radio hidden at her lips. “Ahmad, be ready.”

She kept the same pace as she neared the valley again.

She heard the truck engine engage, its growl echoing off the bowl’s walls. Earlier, she had asked Ahmad if he knew how to drive. He had scoffed as if the question insulted his manhood. She had him prove it nonetheless, circling the bowl twice.

She trusted the enemy would believe the boy had grown bored and was preparing to take the Unimog for another joyride.

But not this time. This time it was serious.

When she entered the valley, he already had the truck trundling toward her. She lifted an arm as if greeting him — then cut her arm down.

He gunned the engine and shot toward her.

She dropped low in her seat and throttled the bike into a scream. Her rear tire spun, kicking sand, then the paddles caught traction. She leaped forward, aiming for the truck’s bumper.

She spotted Ahmad’s face behind the windshield. He looked scared but he didn’t slow. At the last moment, she let him win this game of chicken and angled the bike sharply away. The Unimog’s bulk shot past her and continued for the narrow fissure. She wanted the boy and the truck out of here — both to keep him from harm and to protect their only vehicle.

Once clear of the truck, she canted the bike sharply, shifting all of her weight to one peg. As the cycle spun around, she whipped her pistol from a holster strapped to her thigh. She aimed for the side of the cleft where the pebbles had fallen. She trusted that whoever had given themselves away had followed her the rest of the way here.

The sudden commotion on the valley floor succeeded in getting the man to show himself — if only a shift of shadows.

She fired wildly in that direction. She did not expect to hit her target, only buy an extra moment for Ahmad to reach the cover of the cliffs, which he did. The truck vanished into the shadows. She trusted the enemy wouldn’t abandon the valley to go after the boy — at least not right away. The enemy would want to secure their primary target first.

Or let’s hope so.

To further encourage their attention, Seichan raced into the shadows, trimming along the edge of the valley. She shot blindly at the same spot on the cliff. Finally, puffs of sand peppered the floor around her, accompanied by the faint cracks of a rifle.

Good.

She slalomed expertly across the shadows, staying on the gas, bouncing on the pegs to juke the bike into sudden turns. She returned fire as she ascertained the relative position of the sniper. As she performed her acrobatics for another minute, her heart raced in tune with the engine. A smile formed under her scarf as the ends whipped around her face.

Once satisfied she had bought Ahmad the additional time necessary to clear the cleft and reach the open terrain beyond, she swung the bike in a full one-eighty and sped for the entrance to the caverns below.

As she neared the cliff, she did not slow. She thumbed on the bike’s headlamp, ducked low to the handlebars, and shot straight through the doorway.

Time to take this fight underground.

Jane gathered with the others before the only opening that led out of the thoracic cavity and deeper into the slumbering stone god. She glanced back to the heart, now sunk into darkness behind her, still picturing the scrawled message left by her father. With no clue to its meaning, she turned toward the next step of their journey.

An archway cut through the two-foot-thick stone diaphragm at the base of chest. Their combined lights revealed masses of sandstone overhanging the far side. Ancient hands and tools had polished the surfaces almost to a glassy sheen.

“Must be the lobes of the liver,” Derek said, his right hand rubbing under his own ribs as if probing for the same.

Darker shadows beckoned them deeper into what must be the abdominal cavity.

Jane felt a queasiness at venturing in there — not from any anatomical disgust about what might await her ahead, but from her fear that she might let her father down. He had left her a message, possibly dying to deliver it.

And I have no clue what it means.

Derek kept to her side, as if sensing her distress. “Maybe we should take a break and—”

Gray jerked around. “Quiet.”

Then Jane heard it, too. The whine of an engine. It grew steadily louder. They all turned around. A dim light glowed from the throat of the giant, then suddenly brightened as something shot out of the airway and into the thorax. Tires skidded across the floor, slowing the object’s trajectory into the chamber.

It was Ahmad’s bike.

Its rider straightened from a low crouch in the seat.

“Seichan!” Gray called over to her.

But she had already spotted their illuminated group and throttled the engine back up. The roaring reverberated across the enclosed space as she raced over to them. She drew to a full stop but remained seated.

She wore no helmet, but she had strapped on her protective mask. Her gaze took in the room, but her words were for them all. “Company’s coming.”

“Where’s Ahmad?” Gray asked.

Seichan twisted in her seat and unstrapped a pack from the back of her bike. “He’s safe. For now. Sent him off with the truck.” She tossed the pack toward Gray, who caught it. “Grabbed our gear. Extra magazines, flash-bangs, smoke bombs. Kowalski’s Piezer is folded in there, too. It won’t be long before they come down here and try to flush us out.”

Her eyes settled on Jane, her emphasis easy to read.

The enemy has come for me.

Jane pictured her father’s message.

Derek took her hand, plainly understanding the same. “What do we do?”

Gray turned the question back on him. “Could there be another exit?”

Derek shrugged. “I don’t… probably, I guess.”

She squeezed his hand. “He’s right. These ancients often built escape galleries leading out from their sacred structures.”

Derek glanced to the thoracic cavity and back to the archway leading to the abdomen. “We entered through the mouth, so if these builders continued to stick to proper anatomy…”

Kowalski groaned. “You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

Gray patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s hope that’s the case. It may be our only way out.”

He herded them toward the archway, while Seichan followed with the bike.

As they passed under the lobes of the liver, Derek shone his light on a stone sphere nestled higher up. “Gallbladder,” he mumbled, a trickle of awe in his voice despite the danger.

Jane still held his hand and appreciated something solid to grip, to help anchor herself. She stayed with him as they ventured deeper into the peritoneal cavity of the abdomen. The group’s helmet lamps and the headlight of the bike illuminated the wonders found here.

They rounded the bulge of a giant stomach, which rested atop a stone spleen, and discovered most of the cavity ahead was a single mass of rock sculpted into coils and tangles, representing the god’s intestines. Again the details were amazing, from the hints of folded omentum wrapped around the internal organs to the tracery of blood vessels over all the surfaces.

Higher still, a row of vertebrae arched across the roof and vanished into the dark depths of the abdomen. To either side, the walls had been carved into two huge kidneys, which looked precariously hung there and about to fall down.

“Over here,” Seichan said.

She guided her bike to the stomach and speared her headlight at a narrow opening in its side.

A door…

Gray stepped over and poked his head into the stomach. “I can see where the esophagus dumps in here.” He shifted his shoulders. “And another passageway heads out.”

Derek stared across the breadth of the cavern. “It must lead through the rest of the intestinal tract. Ending hopefully at another exit. It might not be the most dignified way of escaping, but we don’t have much choice.”

As Gray straightened, Seichan pulled him a step aside. “I left Ahmad with a radio and a GPS. Told him to get clear and that I’d radio our position if we found a way out.” She glanced to Jane. “But we know who the enemy’s true target is. Same as back at Ashwell.”

Gray seemed to understand her unspoken implication. “Then you need to get Jane out of here.” He glanced to the group. “But for you to truly get away, we’ll have to distract the enemy, keep them focused down here. Hopefully by the time they realize you’ve escaped…”

“We’ll be in the Unimog and heading for Khartoum. Once they figure that out, they’ll come after us, which may allow you all the time to get free, too.”

“So win-win,” he said grimly, looking far from convinced of the likelihood of that outcome.

Jane resented that they were treating her like a football, giving her no say in the matter. Derek had overheard their conversation and came to a different conclusion.

“They’re right,” he said. “Harold left that message for you. You’re too important to risk.”

She saw the look in his eyes; the worry shining from his face had nothing to do with saving the world. “But I don’t know what my father—”

He squeezed her hand. “You will.”

She stared toward the door into the stomach. “But what if we’re wrong? What if there’s no exit back there?”

From a step away, Kowalski offered additional support. “I’m sure there’s a way out.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He urged her toward the opening. “I read it in a book.”

Even Gray was puzzled by this response. “What book?”

Kowalski sighed, exasperated. “Everybody Poops.” He waved an arm to encompass the cavern. “That’s gotta apply to this big guy, too.”

Gray groaned.

Jane smiled, feeling the tension ease across her shoulders.

“Man makes sense,” Derek said.

Seichan simply shook her head and pushed her bike through the door and into the stomach. They would need the cycle’s speed if the two of them ever reached the desert.

With no choice but to accept this plan, Jane started to follow her, but Derek held her back.

“Be careful.” He leaned forward and hugged her, appearing for a moment like he wanted to kiss her, but their masks made that impossible.

She hugged him back instead, holding tight for a long breath, then finally let go. “I’ll see you soon.”

“You’d better.”

She turned and climbed after Seichan. Once inside, she spotted the tunnel leading out into the intestinal maze. The opening was halfway up the curved stomach wall. Her gaze swept over the rest of the gastric chamber. The surface was covered in what appeared to be shriveled ulcers — then she realized they were faces, with sunken eyes and blank expressions.

She balked at the sight, her skin pebbling with superstitious fear.

Jane jumped as Seichan started the engine and throttled its growl into a deafening roar.

Seichan patted the seat behind her. “Hop on.”

“What are you—?”

“Get over here.”

Cringing, Jane crossed to the bike, hooked a leg, and dropped onto the padded seat.

“Hold tight!”

Jane barely got her arms around the woman’s waist when she gunned the engine. The bike spun in a tight circle, gaining momentum, then shot up the sloped wall and dropped through the opening.

Jane ducked from the low roof.

Ahead, the headlamp revealed the twisted roller coaster stretching before them.

“Here we go!” Seichan called back, sounding as if she were smiling.

Jane snagged her arms more tightly around Seichan.

Oh, god…

Valya watched from the top of the sun-blasted cliffs.

Her vantage overlooked the shadowy bowl of the valley. She waited until the last of Kruger’s men vanished through the dark doorway into the mysteries below. She could have accompanied them, but she did not trust the woman who guarded their target.

Seichan.

Earlier, Valya had watched her ride back and forth along the floor of the fissure. From her height, she had tried to read meaning in the tracks left in the sand by her bike. She had suspected the woman was doing more than just guarding the far end of that cleft, keeping them from blocking the way out.

Seichan must have suspected their presence — or at least, made plans as if they were here. She knew Valya’s team would wait until the others climbed out of the hole, to trap them in the open.

So instead, you forced our hand, wanting us to play your game.

Though Valya was willing to follow along — sending Kruger and his men below — she was not foolish enough to leave the surrounding deserts unguarded and unwatched. She refused to be tricked by that traitor into loosening the cordon around these hills.

To help her in this duty, she stepped away from the cliff and picked up the second of the team’s two UAV drones. She set the Raven’s propellers to turning, then lifted it high. She returned to the cliff and cast the bird into the sky. It dipped for a breath, then its four-foot-long wings caught a thermal rising from the valley. It rose into the sky and started to circle out.

The bird would be her eyes, spying from on high across all these broken hills.

A handheld monitor displayed its feed, split between two screens.

The first screen showed a truck trundling across the desert.

She had already cast the first Raven aloft, sending it after the fleeing Unimog. She wanted to know if it turned back. She briefly considered sending one of Kruger’s scouts to chase it down with one of their motorcycles, but she didn’t want to weaken the forces sent below.

The primary objective remained Jane McCabe.

Plus the Raven watching the truck continued to broadcast an interference net over the escaping vehicle, blocking any transmissions, isolating the driver. It would be hours before he could reach help.

She settled to a crouch, balancing on her toes at the cliff’s edge.

If Kruger’s men failed to handle matters below and allowed the others to pop their heads above the sand…

She picked up her assault rifle.

I’ll be waiting for you.

18

“I hope you’re comfortable,” Simon Hartnell said.

Painter stared down at his wrists bound in tight handcuffs. His ankles were shackled to a steel chair. They were clearly taking no chances with him. He had been marched at gunpoint to this small library in Hartnell’s private residential level. After securing him, the guards had retreated through the door. Notably absent during all of this was Anton, but what did that mean?

“Where is Kathryn Bryant?” Painter asked.

“That’s a good question. The last sight we had of her was when her Sno-Cat disappeared into the storm.”

Painter took grim satisfaction at the news.

So she got away.

“She’s done a surprising amount of damage,” Hartnell said. “More than she truly knows.”

Sounds like Kat.

“But she’ll be dealt with.” Hartnell stalked around his desk and leaned against it, like a teacher about to scold a student. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, you and I. You’re a man of science, so perhaps I should have been more up front.”

Painter let him talk as he studied the room. A computer station with multiple monitors covered one wall, but the rest of the space was paneled and shelved in mahogany, with rows of dusty books and small illuminated museum cases. His gaze lingered a moment too long on a pair of tall-masted sailing ships — detailed wooden models of nineteenth-century frigates.

Hartnell noted his attention. “The HMS Terror and Erebus. They were former warships turned into vessels of exploration.”

Painter knew those names and the tragic story that went with them. “As I recall, the pair vanished into the Arctic, while searching for the Northwest Passage.”

“Indeed. Back in 1896, the two ships became trapped in ice off the coast of King William Island, not far from here. The crew’s story became one of deprivation, madness, and death. All hands were lost, including a distant relative of mine, John Hartnell, who accompanied the voyage only to end up in a shallow grave on nearby Beechey Island.” He gave a sorrowful shake of his head. “I visited the burial site myself recently, to pay my respects to such an enterprising and determined young man.”

“It seems some men reach too far.”

Hartnell ignored his veiled insinuation. “In John’s case, his downfall wasn’t his ambition, as it was a few bad cases of Goldner’s Patent meat. Tests on the young man’s cold, mummified remains showed he suffered lead poisoning from the cans, which likely drove him and the others insane.” He nodded to the ships. “Still, you are right about the story being a cautionary tale — but not how you think.”

“Then how?”

“Did you know that, due to the extensive melting of ice throughout the Arctic, cruise ships — full of passengers sipping cocktails and dining in fine restaurants — now sail the Northwest Passage, navigating the same waters traveled by the Terror and the Erebus?” He scowled. “Tourists come here to see the top of the world, when in fact they are witnessing its end.”

“From climate change?” Painter goaded the man with the doubt in his voice, hoping to get a rise out of him, to get him to reveal more than he intended. He knew how much this topic was an obsession for the CEO of Clyffe Energy. “Don’t you think you’re being rather dramatic, even alarmist?”

“Everyone should be alarmed.” Hartnell stood up. “The planet is warming at an unprecedented rate. According to NASA’s analysis of ice cores, it’s accelerating at a pace not seen for a thousand years. Month after month, average temperatures are hitting record highs. Kuwait broke a world record, reaching 129 degrees. Soon some places on the planet will be too hot to be habitable. We’re already seeing weather events that have grown beyond storms of the century — they’re storms of such severity that their like have not been seen in over five hundred years.”

“Weather is unpredictable,” Painter said with a shrug.

Hartnell looked apoplectic. “Maybe if it was only one such event. But in the past year alone, the U.S. has experienced eight five-hundred-year rainstorms. Eight!” He slammed a fist on his desk. “And don’t tell me it’s any natural cycle. NOAA looked at the last time the earth warmed up, rising out of the last ice age. The temperature rise recorded over this past century is ten times faster than that, twenty times faster than the average historical rate. So it’s not a cycle we’re dealing with — it’s an extinction-level event.”

Painter scoffed, “And what do you think you can do about it? From what I’ve read, we’re already past the tipping point.”

Hartnell straightened. “That’s right. To stop what’s to come, it’s going to take someone with vision, someone willing to take big risks. It will require a Manhattan Project level of commitment. Something world governments can no longer orchestrate. For any true change, it’ll be up to the private sector.”

“In other words, you.” Painter narrowed his eyes at his opponent. “What exactly are you doing here at Aurora Station?”

Pushed to the edge, Hartnell stepped over it. “I’m going to end global warming and offer the world an energy source like no other.”

“How?”

Hartnell turned to a small glass case holding a black leather notebook.

“With the help of a friend.”

Simon Hartnell fought the angry trembling of his hand to insert the key into the case’s lock. He finally got it seated and opened the glass door. With great care, he removed the volume inside. He turned to the bound man in the seat.

He suspected Painter Crowe was purposefully trying to provoke him, but he didn’t care.

“This belonged to Nikola Tesla. It was his personal journal, a notebook that the U.S. government confiscated after his death. But they failed to appreciate or comprehend what was written inside here.”

“And you did?”

He smiled, calmer now as he held the book, refusing to be goaded. “Granted it took me over thirty years. And I still don’t know everything. The man could be damnably cryptic when he wanted to be.” He crossed over and sat at his desk. “And sadly he was more of a visionary genius than a practical one. It’s why everyone knows Thomas Edison’s name, but not so much Nikola Tesla. Edison was a man of his times… Tesla ahead of it.”

“And let me guess. Those times have finally come around.”

Simon looked sharper at the man, recognizing a keener mind than he first would have guessed, especially for someone working for the government.

“That’s right,” Simon said. “I intend to show what a genius he truly was.”

Painter stared off into the distance. “Your antenna array. It’s more than just a high-powered version of HAARP.”

“Indeed. It’s the realization of Tesla’s dream. A world without war, of cheap and limitless energy, and of a healthy, thriving planet.”

“And you can deliver all of that?”

“In time. We’re preparing for a localized test — a proof of concept, if you will — scheduled for the day after tomorrow.”

“What concept?”

“How much do you really know about Tesla’s Wardenclyffe project?”

Painter frowned. “Only that it was his failed attempt at building a network of wireless power generators. His tower was to be the first.”

“Wardenclyffe was going to be his proof of concept, to show to the world what was possible. He starting building the tower in 1901, but its engineering and design were based on theories and tests going back decades. At its simplest, he knew that to transmit energy wirelessly he would need a conductor that could carry that energy around the globe. He investigated two possible sources: the earth and the atmosphere. He believed it was possible to pump energy deep into the earth to stimulate the planet’s natural resonance frequency, which would magnify that energy globally. Alternatively, the same could be achieved by projecting energy up to a charged conductive layer of the atmosphere.”

“The ionosphere.”

Simon nodded. “Such a layer was only speculated about at that time. It wouldn’t be proven to exist until 1925.”

“So again Tesla was ahead of his time.”

“Unfortunately true. Because of this, Tesla looked to the only conductor he had access to: the earth. He designed Wardenclyffe to have three-hundred-foot footings, so his tower could better grip the earth, as he described it.”

“But it was a failure.”

“Only because he didn’t have the technology to explore the more promising approach: the earth’s ionosphere. Later, when this layer was proven to exist, he did further work, and in 1931 announced that he was on the verge of discovering a new energy source, from — and I quote—‘a new and unsuspected source.’ But what that source was, he never revealed in the news article.”

Painter must have noted his growing excitement. “But you know what it was.”

Simon placed a palm atop Tesla’s notebook. “It’s all here.”

Painter shifted taller. “You’re talking about that electric microbe.”

Simon could not hide his shock, impressed once again. “That’s correct. Tesla experimented on a very dangerous organism in London.”

“Was that back in 1895, at the British Museum, when a bunch of researchers opened an artifact once owned by David Livingstone?”

Simon tilted his chair back, his eyes wide.

How much did this man already know?

“What else is in that book of yours?” Painter asked.

“Tesla extrapolated a design, based on what he learned of the organism’s properties and what was being discovered about the ionosphere, for a crude version of what we’ve built here. Again the technology and power sources necessary to pull it off weren’t available to him at the time.”

“So you improved and expanded this work and built Aurora Station.”

“It’s my Wardenclyffe. A local test station for a grander global vision.”

“And what’s that vision?”

“As I said before, it’s the same as Tesla’s. World peace, cheap and limitless energy, and a healthier planet.” Simon challenged his guest. “Is that not a worthy goal?”

“Of course it is. And I’m more than happy to admit that. But it’s how you intend to achieve such a lofty goal that concerns me.”

“You’re referring to the acquisition of Dr. al-Maaz.”

“Kidnapping and murder would better describe that act.”

Simon nodded, conceding the point.

Painter rattled his cuffs. “And then there’s this.”

“All unfortunate. And never intended. In fact, most of the deaths leading up to this moment you can place at the feet of Professor McCabe. If he hadn’t acted so rashly, many lives would have been spared.”

“It’s easy to blame the dead.”

“But no less true.”

The phone on Simon’s desk chimed. He checked the ID.

Ah…

He faced his guest and buzzed the guards in the hall. “I have a few matters to attend. So we’ll have to end this discussion for now.”

“Wait.” Painter shuffled in his seat. “Tell me how you plan to bring about Tesla’s vision.”

Simon smiled and lifted the book. “It’s best you hear this from the great man himself. Though maybe not in his native Serbian. I’ll have a translated copy sent to your room. After you read it, we’ll talk again. Maybe then you’ll fully understand what’s at stake.”

The guards entered, and with a bit of clanking chains, escorted the hobbled prisoner out of the room. Once Simon was alone, he tapped the button for the incoming call and lifted the receiver.

“Anton, are you all patched up?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be joining the search crews immediately.”

“Good. Find them. We need to secure the data stolen from the lab.”

With the mummy incinerated, the topographic map of the body’s tattoos offered the best chance for learning how to tame that deadly microbe. From the webcam discussion they had tonight, it sounded as if Rory and Dr. al-Maaz had been close to discovering something important.

Anton growled into the phone. “If they’ve harmed Rory…”

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

The two men had grown fond over the past two years, which Simon allowed, even encouraged. Though for Anton, love was a strained and strange commodity. His relationship with his sister, Valya, was unhealthy, codependent, binding the pair as surely as their shared tattoo. It wasn’t sexual, thank god, but still injurious to them both. This new relationship also served Simon by weakening that sibling tie, making Valya more useful as a solo operative — and more ruthless.

Nothing like a woman scorned, even if it’s by her own brother.

But now perhaps Anton’s feelings for Rory were becoming a detriment.

“Anton.”

“Sir?”

“Just find that disk. No matter the cost. Do you understand?”

There was a long pause, then a firmer, more determined response.

“It will be done.”

“Hello, hello…”

Kat knew Safia’s efforts were futile. In the passenger seat of the Sno-Cat, Safia clutched Kat’s satellite phone, trying to raise Thule Air Base while Kat concentrated on fighting both the treacherous terrain ahead and the storm. Icy winds buffeted the cab, howling in frustration at not being able to reach them. Dry, pebbly hail pelted the sides.

By now, they must have crossed the border into Quttinirpaaq National Park, though she couldn’t be sure without GPS.

Safia lowered the phone and craned at the mountains out her window. “Maybe if we got higher.”

“It wouldn’t help,” Kat said, squinting over the steering wheel.

The Sno-Cat’s headlamps stretched only yards into the gloom and blowing snow. They were traveling alongside a frozen river, the ice melted or broken in stretches to reveal the blue waters rushing below. Black jagged peaks framed the valley, appearing and disappearing into the storm.

“Then maybe there’ll be a break in the weather,” Safia said.

“It’s not the weather that’s the problem.” Kat looked at the roiling dark clouds overhead. “It’s a different storm that’s cutting us off. A geomagnetic storm from a recent solar flare. Until it calms down, we’re not going to get any satellite feed.”

“She’s right,” Rory said from the backseat. “It’s forecasted to last a day or two.”

Kat glanced in the rearview mirror. She had stopped long enough to tie his hands behind his back with some rope found in the rear of the Sno-Cat. She had also bound his waist to the seat’s buckle braces. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He caught her looking at him and lowered his chin.

She remembered his earlier concern for Safia, acting genuinely contrite and remorseful, but she also recalled the fear in his voice at seeing Anton’s blood trail. She suspected the two must have developed a deeper bond.

At Sigma command, she had reviewed the record on Anton Mikhailov, back when he was sixteen years old. The crimes listed had been “petty theft” and “immoral acts.”

In Russia at that time, homosexuality was still considered a crime.

Kat also recalled her review of the disappearance of Professor McCabe from two years ago. There had been reports of friction between father and son, of the two butting heads. Even Jane had mentioned the same, attributing it to her brother railing against their domineering father.

Kat didn’t doubt that was part of the reason.

But maybe not the only reason.

Had Professor McCabe known about his son and never accepted it… or had Rory kept his orientation a secret, driving an unspoken wedge between father and son?

Rory had some explaining to do, but now was not the—

“Kat!” Safia grabbed her arm.

She pulled her attention forward. Something large loomed directly ahead, caught in her headlamp. The dark, shaggy form stood by the river, head down, drinking from the river through one of the breaks in the ice.

A muskox.

Kat swerved the Sno-Cat sharply to avoid a collision, but the only path was across a frozen stretch of the river. The treads ground across the ice. She cringed at every pop and crack, but they made it to the far bank and climbed away.

“Sorry about that,” Kat said, wiping her brow.

The terrain and the storm clearly did not like being ignored.

“You need some sleep,” Safia said softly.

I do. “Once we reach Alert.”

That was their plan. On the far side of Quttinirpaaq National Park was the Canadian outpost of Alert, where their military maintained a garrison and a weather-monitoring station. But Quttinirpaaq was Canada’s second-largest park, which meant they had to traverse one hundred and fifty miles of untamed landscape to reach safety.

The journey would take many hours, if not most of the day.

And that’s if we’re not hunted down first.

She posed that concern to Rory. “Back at Aurora, what type of ground pursuit vehicles do you have at the station?”

Rory shrugged. “Snowmobiles, snow bikes. But they were mostly used for recreation. Aurora’s a scientific installation, not a military base.”

She recognized that, knowing it was likely the only reason she had managed to escape with the others in the first place. As isolated as that facility was, the hostile terrain was probably considered security enough against most threats.

“Some guys used to hunt from the Cessnas,” Rory continued with a frown. “Not exactly sporting, but it offered a way to blow off steam.”

Kat studied the sky. It was the one small blessing of the storm. At least it had grounded the station’s small fleet of bush planes.

But even such hunters were not Kat’s biggest concern.

In the neighboring seat, Safia still clutched the satellite phone to her chest. Kat had asked her to keep trying to raise Thule Air Base. While there was only a slim possibility that a lull in the geomagnetic storm would allow them to reach Colonel Wycroft, Kat had assigned this duty to Safia to keep her distracted.

As Safia gazed out her window, one of her hands reached up and rubbed a cheek. Kat knew the fear behind that gesture, picturing the rip in the biosafety suit, the splatter of blowback. While decontamination had been prompt, had it been in time?

Kat had refrained from telling her about Dr. Kano’s assessment of the disease’s progression, how it took as little as two hours for infectious particles to reach the brain once inhaled.

Had our rescue attempt only ended up dooming the woman?

The Sno-Cat’s heater rattled loudly, sounding asthmatic. It blew warm air throughout the sealed cabin, a noisy reminder that Safia might not be the only one at risk.

The engine suddenly coughed, jolting through the vehicle. Kat bumped into the steering wheel, but the motor steadied, rumbling smoothly again. She let out a relieved breath, but a worry remained. She imagined the station’s Sno-Cats were mostly used for minor duties around the base and feared they weren’t maintained well enough for a cross-country trek through the gnashing teeth of a storm.

As if everyone recognized this, they continued in silence for a long stretch — until a new noise cut through their fears.

It sounded like an avalanche, a rumbling cascade, growing louder.

Then suddenly dark shapes appeared out of the darkness behind them and swept past to either side, converging again in the headlights ahead. The thundering passage was accompanied by a panicked, mournful lowing.

It was a herd of caribou, hundreds of heads, rushing past the Sno-Cat like a river around a boulder. Then as quickly as they came, they vanished back into the storm.

Safia craned her neck to look out the back window. “What do you think spooked them?”

Kat suspected the answer and searched for lights behind them. She got the vehicle moving faster, chasing after the ghostly herd, taking heed of its warning.

Someone’s found us.

Painter rubbed his sore wrists as he paced his cell. The guards had unshackled him, strip-searched him, and tossed him a pair of gray coveralls. They hadn’t even given him any shoes.

But that was the least of his problems.

Worry ate a hole in his gut — for Kat, for Safia.

They had locked him up in Safia’s old room. Her scent still lingered here, a faint hint of jasmine that conjured up their shared past, of desert sands and green oases. It also acutely reminded him of the dangers ahead.

While Kat and Safia had escaped, taking Rory with them, he didn’t know how long they could keep ahead of their pursuers. Despite Simon Hartnell’s cordiality, Painter knew the man would stop at nothing to recapture them.

A scraping noise drew his attention around.

Now what?

A small grate at the bottom of the door slid open. Something was tossed through. It skittered over the floor to Painter’s toes. As he bent down to examine it, the grate snapped back shut.

He picked up a thick sheaf of papers, which were punch-holed and bound together with brads. He flipped through the pages, noting large sections of the text had been redacted with thick black stripes, including what clearly hid diagrams and charts.

Intrigued, Painter crossed to the room’s desk and sat down.

He knew what this must be.

A translated copy of Tesla’s black notebook.

At least in this regard, Hartnell had proved himself a man of his word. Still, from the redacted sections, the man clearly refused to be forthcoming about what was truly going on here.

But I’ll take what I can get.

From this gesture, Painter suspected Hartnell wanted to be understood, even respected for his brilliance and enterprise. Or maybe the guy merely needed an appreciative audience for what was to come and was willing to educate that person to fulfill that role.

Painter was happy to cooperate.

I’ll even clap if it gets me what I want.

Still, Painter knew the man was no fool. He only had to look out the window to see what the man had built, under the very noses of DARPA, even funded by them. He knew better than to underestimate this guy.

Painter stared down at the bound pages.

If he’s given me this, there’s something more he wants from me.

So be it.

He turned to the first page and began reading.

As the story unfolded, an icy certainty grew inside him.

This is not going to end well… for any of us.

19

In the belly of the god, Gray listened as the muffled roaring of Seichan’s bike faded behind him. He hoped there was an exit back there, and if not, he knew Seichan would hole up somewhere with Jane McCabe, trusting Gray and the others to keep them safe.

Kowalski climbed out of the archway into the stomach and gave him a thumbs-up. The big man had prepared a small surprise inside if any of the enemy opted to use the esophageal route into the abdomen. The only other entrance into this half of the slumbering god was through the opening in the diaphragm.

Gray’s team kept watch on this side, guarding that pinch point. It was their best defensible position. The opening was only large enough for one person to pass through at a time. From the shelter behind a stone loop of duodenum, Gray fixed his SIG Sauer upon that archway, wishing he had more firepower.

To his right, Derek crouched behind a hill of rubble where a chunk of anatomy had fallen from on high and shattered into pieces. He kept looking worrisomely up toward the roof, as if expecting something else to fall. The man held a spare sidearm — a Beretta 96A1—and swore he was proficient with a handgun. He claimed it was a necessary skill as an archaeologist who often worked in war-torn countries or places overrun by militant rebels.

Kowalski had his own suggestion for Derek upon hearing this: Maybe you should think about buying a whip.

Right now, Gray would welcome any additional weapon.

Kowalski took a position behind the bulge of the stomach, staying near the opening in case there was any incursion that way. He shouldered his Piezer shotgun, the weapon loaded with shells of piezoelectric crystals, ready to deliver a shocking greeting to any uninvited guest. He also had a Desert Eagle .50-caliber pistol tucked in his belt.

No one spoke, all their ears straining for any sign of the enemy’s approach.

In preparation, Gray had his team click off their lamps to make them less of a target in the dark. Their only light source came from Seichan’s helmet. Gray had confiscated it before she left and positioned it on the floor with its beam pointing toward the opening.

Past the glare of the helmet, he saw no movement, but he swore he could hear faint noises: a brush of pebbles, a rasp of cloth, the creak of leather. If the noises weren’t his ears playing tricks, someone was out in the next chamber, moving dark, likely wearing night-vision gear.

Then everything happened at once.

A rifle cracked, and the helmet lamp shattered, sinking the place in darkness.

At the same time, a loud blast and a brilliant flare of light burst from the archway into the stomach. Someone had hit the trip wire planted by Kowalski across the esophageal opening. It was attached to a pair of flash-bangs.

With his head turned from the brilliance, Kowalski pointed his shotgun blindly into the glare and fired. Scintillating blue piezoelectric crystals exploded inside the stomach, ricocheting all around, dazzling in their own right as the flare of flash-bang faded.

Gray used the moment to toss a smoke bomb toward the tunnel through the diaphragm. It burst at the threshold, casting a thick pall. Derek fired through it to discourage any approach.

With the view into the abdomen momentarily blocked, Gray took off his helmet, clicked on its lamp, and placed it on the floor. “Fall back to position two!”

Derek retreated with him, but Kowalski lunged headlong into the stomach with his Desert Eagle leveled. He fired a single round, likely dispatching someone stunned inside, then popped back out. He dragged something with him and rushed over.

“Thought we might need this,” he said.

His prize was the black tube of a Russian RPG-7—a rocket-propelled grenade launcher — along with two rounds.

Gray turned toward the diaphragm wall with a deep sense of unease.

If the enemy had one rocket launcher, they probably have—

A thunderous boom rocked the world. The opening in the diaphragm blasted apart, herniating wider, sending huge cracks up the sandstone wall dividing the two cavities. Massive chunks rained down, forcing Gray and the others farther back. One slab struck the stomach, crushing it.

Through the stir of smoke and rock dust, dark shapes ran low across the floor, fading in and out of view.

Gunshots rang out, peppering all around.

A round hit his abandoned helmet, shattering its lamp.

Darkness fell like a black shroud.

Derek moaned beside him. “What do we do now?”

Seichan ducked from the explosions, bobbling the bike as everything quaked around her. Jane’s arms squeezed the air from her lungs as she grappled to stay seated. She braked to a stop and looked back the way they had come.

Gray…

Jane stared, too. “What’s happening?”

“Indigestion,” Seichan growled harshly, twisting back forward. “War’s starting inside here. Which means it’s time for us to go.”

She throttled up and headed the last of the way. It appeared to be a straight shot after the looping, curving, tortuous chute that led them here.

“It can’t be far,” Jane said. “I think we’re in the descending colon, part of the large intestine.”

Earlier, the young archaeologist had described the path through the small intestine as being merely representational. Those twisting tunnels had been only slightly narrower than the one they were in now. The route also didn’t match the detailed sculpture of the intestinal tract as seen from outside. Instead, the inner passageway was simply a looping tunnel bored through a football-field-long block of sandstone that had been carved on the outside to appear more convoluted than it truly was.

Seichan followed the spear of her headlight down the track, but her ears remained tuned for any clue to what was happening outside. The explosions had dulled to occasional crashes, but spats of sharper cracks warned of an ongoing firefight.

Jane pointed past her shoulder. “There. See how it narrows ahead. I think that’s the sphincter. We must be near the bottom.”

In this case, literally.

Seichan sped faster.

The sooner they were out of here, the sooner she could lure the enemy away from the fight here. Gray and the others had put their lives at risk to protect them.

Only fair we return the favor.

Where it narrowed, the tunnel took a final dip. As the bike reached that spot, the headlight shone down upon an impaction of rock and sand blocking the way.

“Crap,” Jane swore under her breath.

Seichan braked hard to a stop. “Well, at least it’s not literal.”

Derek crawled along the floor, his head ringing. Gray and Kowalski followed, popping off shots into the darkness. A single light shone out here.

It was Derek’s abandoned helmet.

Gray had positioned it behind a boulder several yards back, out of the direct line of fire. While its lamp did little to reveal the enemy’s approach through the rubble, the weak glow offered enough illumination to let them retreat deeper into the shadowy depths of the abdomen.

“We’re running out of places to go,” Kowalski said.

He was right.

To one side rose the coiled mass of the sculpted intestines; on the other, the abdominal wall swept up in a gentle curve to the arch of the spine along the roof. They were being slowly driven back to the pit of the belly, where they’d be trapped.

Kowalski fired his weapon, making Derek jump.

A pair of dark figures split up out there, looking like scraps of shadows. They vanished to either side.

“This should be far enough,” Gray said.

Far enough for what?

“Everyone get behind me.” Gray raised the grenade launcher to his shoulder.

“Make this count,” Kowalski warned. “We only have one more round after this.”

Derek jumped at the weapon’s blast. A spate of flame shot out the tube’s back end, while a tight spiral of smoke propelled the grenade across the cavern. But rather than firing at the enemy, Gray had aimed high, toward the roof.

No, not the roof.

Gray pushed them all farther back. “Go, go, go…”

The explosion lit up his true target, blasting it free of its attachment to the upper curve of the wall. The bus-sized kidney broke loose, taking part of the roof with it. It toppled, turning slightly in midair, then slammed across the space between their team and the enemy. More rubble followed, raining all around the dislodged kidney.

Something struck Derek’s abandoned helmet and snuffed it like a candle.

Gray pulled out a spare flashlight, thumbed it on, and pointed the beam at the destruction.

Kowalski clapped his partner hard on the back. “No one’s getting past there now!”

Neither are we, Derek thought. At least not until things settle.

But that quickly became unlikely.

Rather than slowing, the collapsing grew steadily worse, spreading wider, escalating. With a mighty tremble in the earth, a huge piece of the sandstone roof cracked away. It dropped like the palm of a god and crushed half the intestinal mass. A thick cloud of sand and dust blasted over them, threatening to smother them if not for their air masks.

Gray got them moving away. “It’s all coming down.”

Jane picked herself up off the ground.

A moment ago, she had been examining the debris blocking the exit — and the next she was sprawled across the floor. Even Seichan had been knocked against the curve of the tunnel, pinned by the bike she had been sitting on. She shoved herself upright, seated again.

They both looked behind them as a ghostly cloud of dust curled down the length of the descending colon toward them.

“We need to get out of here,” Seichan warned. “Right now.”

More quakes and ominous crashes supported this assessment.

Jane coughed, breathing dust. Only then did she realize her air mask had been damaged from her headlong crash.

Cursing, she tore it away.

Seichan reached to her mask, clearly intending to give it to her.

“Keep it on,” Jane said. “No reason for both of us to be put at risk.”

She doubted there was much risk of contagion this far into the bowels of the god, but why take chances?

Instead, she faced the more immediate danger.

“This is just as fake as everything else,” Jane said, patting the obstruction.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s made to look like a natural cave-in. But watch.” She slapped the boulders and scratched at the sand. “It’s a sculpture like all the rest.”

Seichan shrugged, looking resigned to their fate. “Fake or not, it’s still a dead end.”

Jane shook her head. “Derek was right before. The ancients always had hidden escape routes, often disguising them.”

She examined the neighboring wall, running her palms over its surface.

Seichan hopped off her bike to check the other side.

Jane’s fingertips discovered a seam in the rock. “Over here,” she said and followed it around, outlining a square door. “Help me.”

Together, they put their shoulders to one side of the door and pushed. The rock grated and shifted. Encouraged, they worked harder. The door pivoted around a center pole. It gave way easier than Jane had expected.

With the door opened, she wiped her hands on her pants. “My father must have discovered this in the past. He wouldn’t have missed this.”

A pang of sorrow immobilized her.

Seichan went back and pushed the bike to the door. “We have to go.”

Jane nodded and helped her wrestle the cycle through the door and down a short tunnel. Sunlight blazed ahead, drawing them faster. The exit was sheltered by a boulder, which helped hide its position halfway up a cliff. A steep path led down between two rounded hills to either side. The shapely pair hadn’t been sculpted by anything but the wind. Still, their combined silhouettes created an unmistakable piece of human anatomy — especially considering from where she and Seichan had just fled.

They headed down.

Seichan walked the bike, but her gaze remained behind them.

Jane knew her worry.

The others were still trapped below.

Gray retreated with Kowalski and Derek, fleeing the destruction, driven farther into the depths of the dying god. Guilt ate at him, knowing the devastation his errant shot had triggered.

By now, the middle of the cavern was gone, collapsed into rubble. More and more was coming down. Rock dust choked and clouded the air, making it hard to see.

“There’s gotta be another way out,” Kowalski said, looking to the two of them for support.

Gray pointed to the crumbled ruin of the intestinal tract, praying Seichan and Jane weren’t still in there. “That way’s blocked.” He waved behind them. “And there’s no going back the way we came.”

“Then what about another exit?” Kowalski turned to Derek, who wore a dazed expression, nearing shock. “Didn’t you say those old guys built a bunch of secret tunnels and whatnot?”

Derek shrugged. “Here it’s all about anatomy. We entered the mouth. The only logical exit is the other end.”

Kowalski balled a fist, thinking hard. “We got other holes,” he said and waved a hand below his waist. “What about… you know…”

Gray realized the big guy could be right. “Derek, is that possible?” he glanced toward the pit of the abdomen. “Maybe through the bladder.”

Derek had stopped, his brows pinched in thought. “And out the urethra? No.” He turned and fixed Gray with a determined look. “But I think I know how to get out of here.”

At last…

Valya grinned at the thin dust trail rising a quarter-mile away.

Despite the past twenty minutes of quakes, buried blasts, and an upwelling of smoke through the mouth of the subterranean complex, she had maintained her cliffside vigil. With no sign of Kruger and his men, she could only imagine the pitched battle below.

Still, his team had succeeded in chasing the hare out of its burrow.

To confirm what she already suspected, she shifted over to the UAV control station and directed the Raven in the skies to sweep down upon that trail.

She wanted eyes on that target.

Crouched by the monitor, she watched a dizzying bird’s-eye view of the broken hills as the drone dove toward a small motorcycle racing across the sand. It scribed a straight path away from the hills and headed toward the distant Nile. Two riders hunched atop the seat. The tail of a scarf waved from the neck of the driver, half-hiding her face.

Valya’s jaw tightened, recognizing that particular flag.

Seichan.

Still, mistrust kept her fixed in place. It could be another trick. The traitor could be trying to lure her from her post, to fool her into chasing a decoy. She toggled the drone to circle closer, using the gimbaled optics to zoom in.

She needed to confirm who rode in back.

Corroboration was made difficult as the figure wore a caver’s helmet and clutched tightly to Seichan’s back, their face turned from the whipping sand and scorching sun.

Valya tilted the Raven, bringing it lower, trying to get the right angle to positively identify the rider. Then as if alerted — maybe by the passing shadow of the drone — the helmeted figure straightened.

Valya cursed and jerked the toggle, but she was too slow.

It was a trick.

The rider in back balanced on her seat, staring straight out of the monitor at her.

It was Seichan.

Using both hands, the woman leveled her pistol at the drone. On the screen those dark eyes narrowed upon Valya, as if knowing who was watching.

A flash from the gun, and the image shattered on the screen.

Valya shoved the monitor and stood. She took three sharp steps toward the cliff, staring at the dust trail still hanging over the desert. Though she didn’t have confirmation, she trusted her instincts.

Jane McCabe had been the one steering the bike, her features hidden under Seichan’s scarf.

Valya swung onto her motorcycle — a Ducati 1080s tuned for the desert and fitted with sand tires. It was a panther compared to her target’s rabbit. And in the open desert, there would be nowhere to hide.

She paused only long enough to grab her portable UAV monitor. She recalled the other Raven, drawing it away from its patrol of the enemy’s truck, and sent it winging to the coordinates of the racing bike. She kept the bird high this time, wanting it to be her eyes from above until she could close the distance.

Not that I have to get that close.

She strapped her assault rifle across her back. It was a Russian AK74M with a GP-25 grenade launcher mounted under its barrel.

She gunned the engine and began her hunt.

Mystified, Gray followed Derek deeper into the dark abdomen. “Where are we going?”

“It shouldn’t be far. If I’m right.”

Kowalski trailed them, glancing frequently over his shoulder, cringing with each resounding crash. The cavern behind them grew smaller as the place imploded. They were being chased by a slow avalanche of stone and sand.

Closer at hand, the walls and roof squeezed around them, while the floor rose under their feet. They had reached the bottom of the belly.

Finally, Derek pointed ahead. “Over there. That should be the bladder.”

To Gray, it looked like a flattened balloon, half-crushed under the last mass of the intestinal tract. “I thought we couldn’t get out through the urinary tract.”

Derek crossed toward the bladder. “Remember when we first entered, I told you something was wrong with the way Tutu’s name was written.”

Gray pictured the two rows of hieroglyphics. The last ended with a kneeling figure. “It depicted a woman instead of a man.”

“We’ve been wrong all this time,” Derek said. “We’re not in the body of a god named Tutu — but a goddess.”

He lifted an arm to the rounded bulk crushing the other half of the flattened bladder.

“And that’s her womb.”

Gray craned up at the mass of the uterus. He remembered the delicate decoration inscribed inside the stone heart, of a flock of butterflies in midflight. Even then it had struck him as feminine.

“How did you figure this out?” he asked.

Derek glanced back to him. “It wasn’t all that hard. Remember that pile of rubble I first hid behind?”

Gray nodded. Something had fallen from the roof and shattered into ruin. Derek had kept looking for its source. Gray had thought the man was worrying about something else crushing him.

Instead, he was studying the anatomy.

“It was an ovary,” Derek said. “I spotted where it broke away and rolled down to where I was standing. I could just make out the remaining fallopian tubes carved into the wall and trailing back into the darkness.”

To here.

Gray turned back to the womb.

“Surely if there was another exit from here,” Derek said, “it would be through there. In a symbolic act of birth.”

Gray adjusted his light to sweep over the bladder and across the vastness of the stone uterus. A dark shadow marred its surface. “A door!”

A loud boom made them all jump. A huge section of the roof dislodged to their right, taking with it a large portion of the sculpted spine, breaking the goddess’s lower back. It crashed on the far side of the cavity, rattling down more boulders in a deafening cascade.

“Go!” Gray ordered.

They scaled the shoulder-high edge of the bladder amid a storm of sand and pebbles. Gray’s light illuminated the way to the door. Past the threshold, there was indeed a large cavity inside. They all ducked through to escape the onslaught.

Once out of the storm, the world grew quieter, the air less dust-choked. Maybe it was his imagination, but Gray was overcome by a sense of reverence, as if stepping into a cathedral.

He lifted his light high. Like with the heart and stomach, the walls here were decorated, inscribed with images. Cherub-like children danced all around them, seeming almost to fly.

Derek found a grimmer sight. “Look down.”

Gray shifted his beam to his feet. Across the floor, there were more children, but from their twisted, contorted shapes, they looked dead or tortured.

Derek tried to cover his mouth, but his air mask blocked him. “It’s a depiction of the tenth plague. The figures below are all boys. The ones above all girls.”

Gray saw he was right.

Everything here is a lesson.

Kowalski had another one as he herded them forward, eyeing the sand sweeping across the doorway. “Keep moving or we’ll be joining those boys.”

They bowed as the roof lowered, the way pinching to a stone cervix. They had to drop on hands and knees to get through but could stand once past that point. Gray fixed his light down the last muscular length of the tunnel, representing the birth canal. His beam ended at a pile of rock, blocking the way.

“Great,” Kowalski said. “She had to be a virgin.”

Derek touched Gray’s elbow. “Turn off your flashlight.”

He did as the man asked. Darkness fell over them, but as his eyes adjusted, he noted faint flickers of light ahead, piercing the rockfall.

“It’s a cave-in but likely fairly recent,” Derek said. “With care we might be able to dig our—”

The ground jolted with a thunderous explosion. Sand and dust blasted at them from behind. Gray heard more rock cascading across the blocked opening ahead, further sealing them in.

“No time.”

He crowded everyone back to the stone cervix and into the uterus. Once through, he swung the tube of the RPG launcher up to his shoulder and fitted in the last round.

“Cover your ears and open your mouth.”

He dropped to his belly, pointed the launcher through the cervix, and fired.

The blast and fire overwhelmed his senses, blinding and deafening him. Rocks pelted his head and shoulders. Then something tugged on his leg.

Faint words reached him. “Run, goddamnit!”

He lifted his head as his vision cleared, only to be dazzled by a brightness that stung.

Sunlight…

Then dark shadows began to fall across the brilliance.

“Out!” Kowalski pushed Gray from behind. “Before it closes back up!”

Gray understood and lunged forward. Once at the threshold, he dove headlong through the cascade of rock and sand. He landed on his shoulder and rolled down a long, sandy slope.

Kowalski and Derek followed his example.

They all tumbled clear as the desert swallowed up the hole behind them.

Gray stood shakily.

Kowalski simply rolled to his rear, looking back at the ruins. “So was it good for you, sweetheart?” He gained his feet and wiped his brow. “Cuz I’m spent.”

Derek stumbled a few steps away, his eyes on the ground. “There are tire tracks over here.”

Gray joined him, his gaze following the trail out into the desert as relief flooded through him.

Seichan made it out.

We’re not going to make it.

Seichan hunched low over the bike’s handlebars. She had switched places with Jane after shooting down the drone fifteen minutes ago and now raced across the desert. She had hoped to gain more distance before the enemy had found them.

No such luck.

Without a good lead, they would never reach Rufaa before the enemy intercepted them. Jane had tried radioing Ahmad but got no response.

Despite the treacherous terrain, Seichan had the throttle fully open, driving hard.

Jane patted her side. Still keeping one arm around Seichan’s waist, she pointed to the right, to a dust trail in the distance. A small dark mote sped across the sand, the source of the smoke signal.

Seichan wanted to believe it was a mirage.

Nothing could be moving that fast.

It had to be racing well over a hundred miles an hour.

Still, she knew it was real — and knew who rode so hell-bent after them.

Seichan gritted her teeth, trying to will more speed out of their bike.

Never make it.

The mote to her right closed in, revealing itself to be a black-and-silver motorcycle. Its rider lay almost flat across the seat.

Seichan searched ahead, knowing she could never outrun that pale rider sweeping toward them. A dune rose in the distance, a crisp line stretching across their path. Their only hope was to seek cover and higher ground.

With a goal set, Seichan hunkered lower.

C’mon…

The dune rose higher as they approached, cresting into the sky like a frozen wave. It was steeper than it first looked. But there was no turning back.

As she reached its lower edge, she shifted her rump back, pushing Jane with her. She needed as much weight over the rear wheel as possible, adding traction to the rubber paddles of the back tire. The bike shot up the slope, kicking sand high. She didn’t slow. They couldn’t risk getting bogged down.

Still, the disturbed sand fought them. As she cut higher up the dune, the entire side suddenly gave way, sliding down, becoming a river. She fought against the current, shimmying the bike’s rear from side to side to keep them moving, bouncing off the pegs to keep the back tire from sinking too deep.

A glance to her right revealed the hunter was upon them, only fifty yards back.

Seichan searched up, believing she might just clear the crest in time.

Then the dune exploded above her, blasting a wall of sand toward her. There was no getting out of the way. The wave flipped the bike, sending both riders flying.

Seichan hit the sand, righted herself, and used her heels to brake herself to a stop. She was perched halfway up the slope. Jane was not as fortunate. The woman continued to tumble toward the desert floor.

The enemy closed down on her, riding one-handed. Her other arm steadied an assault rifle with a grenade launcher smoking from beneath the barrel.

Seichan grabbed for her SIG Sauer, but her thigh holster was empty.

There was nothing she could do.

Her adversary wore no helmet, only a scarf over her lower face, but Seichan knew the woman was grinning savagely, savoring the kill. She knew that feeling, having been at the other end of that rifle many times before.

The bike slowed as Jane came to a dazed stop.

As the engine’s roar dimmed, a new noise intruded.

Barking.

From the dune behind her.

She twisted in time to see a furry shape bound over the crest and come racing down.

Anjing.

Along the ridge, dark shapes appeared. They were figures wrapped in desert robes. They dropped flat along the sandy crest, long rifles at their shoulders. A barrage of gunfire drove her flat, but they were all aiming below, toward the woman atop the cycle.

Rounds puffed into the sand, ricocheted off rocks, and a few pinged into the flank of the enemy motorcycle. The rider spun from the onslaught, strafing wildly behind her, but her intent was not to win but to escape. Denied her prize, she raced away, slaloming wildly to present a harder target.

Anjing ran up and licked Seichan on the face, dancing in the sand around her.

She held the mutt off long enough to turn and see Ahmad come sliding down to her.

“How…?” She glanced to the line of men rising along the ridge. “Who…?”

Ahmad smiled, waving up. “From Rufaa. They come to kill you.” From her shocked look, he patted her arm. “They think you kill two village elders. Find bodies this morning. Follow trail out here.”

To exact revenge.

Seichan remembered the figure she had spotted lurking around their truck. She now knew that must have been the pale woman in disguise. Apparently her subterfuge that night also included murder.

“They find me in truck,” Ahmad said. “I tell them you no kill. Then we see you.” He wiggled his hand in the air to mimic her dust trail. “Come to meet you.”

And save us.

Below, Jane had gained her feet and started climbing. Once she joined them, they hiked to the top of the dune. Hidden on its far side was a collection of sand bikes, along with a few camels, likely from nomads collected along the way by the hunting party.

But something was missing.

“Where’s the Unimog?”

“Ah, not far. But too much noise, too much”—he wiggled his hand in the air again—“to sneak here.”

Seichan craned the other way, looking off in the distance.

Near the horizon, she could make out the two hills that served as the giant’s buttocks. A new cloud of dust hung in the air back there.

Gray…

Jane noted her attention. “Maybe they got out.”

Seichan grabbed Ahmad’s shoulder. “Only one way to find out.”

20

Painter sat at his room’s desk, reading through the translated book for a second time. He remained astounded by the story found here. It was split into two tales: One detailed Nikola Tesla’s time spent in London, the other — set in the deserts of Nubia — featured Sir Henry Morton Stanley and of all people, Samuel Clemens.

Mark Twain…

Painter shook his head.

No wonder whoever stole this notebook after Tesla’s death put no credence upon what was written in here. Painter wouldn’t have believed it himself if not for the corroboration of recent events.

According to the inventor’s story, he and Twain were summoned by Sir Stanley to stop a plague in London, the same one afflicting the world now. Painter knew enough of the story of David Livingstone’s artifact and the disease it held to substantiate this claim.

The group took a steamship across the Atlantic, where they split up. Tesla went directly to the British Museum, which had been locked up and quarantined. There he experimented with a strange bloody sample found in the Egyptian artifact. He came to correctly recognize that the crimson-hued microbe seen under a microscope was the disease agent.

He named this germ Pestis fulmen, Latin for “a plague of lightning.”

Even before Tesla had arrived, the Brits had noted the strange electrical properties of the bloody water, noting a glow from it during a lightning storm, as if it were reacting to the charge in the air. So they sought out an expert in electricity, sending Stanley to America. They had wanted Edison at first but apparently had to settle for Tesla, which from the Serbian’s veiled comments in the text clearly rankled him.

Still, he did his best to see if electricity could cure the disease. While enough electricity could indeed overload and fry the microbe, it did the same to anyone afflicted. Tesla quoted Francis Bacon about his failed effort and tragic outcome: I’ve cured the disease but killed the patient.

Afterward, despondent yet determined, he set out to study the organism, to better understand it. He began to experiment with ways to harness its potential. Most of what followed had been redacted, clearly containing details Simon Hartnell did not want to share.

Painter glanced out the window at the spread of the antenna array.

Hartnell obviously learned something from Tesla’s early efforts.

He returned his attention to the book.

In the end, Tesla abandoned his research, deeming it too dangerous, especially considering the nature of the microbe. This decision was further supported by the other half of the story.

After dropping Tesla in London, Twain and Stanley took the same steamer to Cairo, traveling incognito, following clues left by David Livingstone and hoping to find the source of the disease — and its possible cure.

Twain wrote Tesla about it.

Painter read further as Twain described the overland trek in general terms, clearly leaving out details on purpose. But at last, following those damnably clever clues, the group discovered a subterranean complex, dug out of a set of desert hills. From there the story defied plausibility. It was a tale of mummies and curses and of a great stone goddess buried in the sands.

The sight awed Twain to the point of poetic reverence.

Within that sculpted tomb, Stanley and Twain must have discovered or recovered something important. A month later, they returned to England, where they were able to successfully cure the afflicted and halt the plague’s spread.

Yet, again Twain was vague about the details of the cure. It sounded like they had discovered the means to a cure inside the tomb, but not the actual medicinal tincture, as Twain wrote. He was frustratingly enigmatic about it all, but he offered his reasons, warning not only of the dangers from within that tomb, but also of the dangers from without.

So the story ended with Tesla and Twain returning home to continue their lives, keeping this secret. Tesla concluded by acknowledging the one man whose dedication to the people and lands of Africa had offered them a path to the cure.

Painter closed the bound pages and let his palm rest there.

He heard a soft whirring by the door. He glanced up as the camera on the ceiling swung in his direction. He knew who was likely watching him, waiting for him to finish.

He shoved the pages away.

Let’s do this.

Simon stared down at his prisoner, once again bound and shackled to a chair in his library. He intended to make this man understand, to gain his trust, if only enough to help him lure his companions out of the storm.

I need that data they stole.

Simon leaned back on his desk. “So now you know the story.”

Painter shrugged, clinking his chains. “I think I’m even more in the dark about what’s going on here.”

“In truth, so was I. When I first obtained Tesla’s notebook back in 1985, I didn’t have the financial resources I do now, so there was not much I could do except review Tesla’s experiments. I thought the man was theorizing a hypothetical situation, positing the existence of such an organism and extrapolating how its properties might be harnessed for the betterment of mankind.”

“But it wasn’t hypothetical.”

Simon shrugged. “Maybe, but no one knew that until a few years ago, when some biologists in California discovered the first example of a bacterium that ate and excreted electrons, living directly off electricity.” He smiled. “But you can imagine my interest.”

Painter lifted a brow, acknowledging this.

“By then, I was in a better financial position to explore this further.”

“To the tune of a couple billion.”

“Only one, if we’re being precise.” He waved this humble brag away. “Anyway, I funded researchers working on such microbes, both in the States and abroad. Investigating practical applications, like engineering biocables—living bacterial nanowires that could conduct electricity — or the creation of nanoscale engines powered by such microbes that could clean up pollution. The potential is thrilling.”

“And quite profitable, I imagine.” Painter shifted closer. “But that was not your ultimate goal. You were hoping to find an organism that could fuel Tesla’s designs, those that you found in his old notebook.”

Simon nodded, reminded again how sharp and intuitive this man could be.

Tread carefully.

“Nothing panned out, so I kept returning to the notebook. I grew more and more convinced that the story written there wasn’t some rough draft for a future story by Twain, a wild tale featuring his personal friends instead of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer.”

“So you began following the bread crumbs found in that book.”

“Not me personally. Like I had done with the biologists, I began funding archaeologists, anyone with an interest in that region.”

“Like Professor McCabe.”

“No, it was his son actually. The young man wanted desperately to show up his father, to escape his giant shadow. I gave him the clues to look into the relationship between Stanley and Livingstone, believing someone might be able to reconnect those old dots. When Rory failed, frustration drove him to seek his father’s help — while still keeping his old man in the dark about who was pulling the strings.”

“And Professor McCabe succeeded in connecting those dots.”

“Somewhat, but to be honest, I think he succeeded mostly by pure dogged fieldwork. From his own past study of the region, along with the additional clues found in Livingstone’s old papers, he simply went looking, taking his son with him.” Simon lifted his hands. “So you can see, there wasn’t anything particularly nefarious in this enterprise, mere scientific curiosity coupled with corporate backing.”

“Granted, but what happened after that?”

Simon sighed. “Like I said, if it wasn’t for Professor McCabe we wouldn’t be in this mess. From his first steps into that tomb to his last steps out, he’s cost lives. I’m just trying to mitigate the damage.”

From Painter’s sour expression, it did not look like he was swallowing this. Still, the man sat back and said, “For now I’ll buy that, so go on with the rest of your story. I assume you found Tesla’s Pestis fulmen microbe, but what are your plans for it?”

For capitulating this much, Simon rewarded him. “The microbe was the missing component of Tesla’s dream for wireless energy. As I mentioned before, Tesla had already theorized using the ionosphere as the conductor, but for his plans to work, he would need a battery up there, something that could hold, distribute, and propagate that power.”

Painter’s eyes widened with understanding. “Tesla envisioned using the microbe as that battery — a living battery.”

“His experiments at the museum supported this vision. He estimated — and I’ve proven it here — that this simple microbe could live for centuries up there, if not millennia, as long as it had a continual supply of food.”

“In other words, electricity.”

“Precisely. So not only is the microbe a living battery, it’s a nearly immortal one.”

Painter sat in his chair, his mind reeling, following this path to where it must lead.

The man is insane… a genius, but insane.

He focused back on Hartnell. “You’re planning to seed the ionosphere with this microbe.”

He had recently heard that the air force was testing the feasibility of a similar plan, in their case to fuel the ionosphere with extra plasma to enhance radio signals. Plus he had read about the discovery of bacteria living in the upper troposphere, feeding on oxalic acid found at that level.

So it might be possible.

But this plan…

“I have a custom cargo jet equipped to dispatch high-altitude weather balloons. Each of them can ferry a quarter ton of the microbe up to the lower levels of ionosphere, where a small charge will disperse its load.”

Painter found himself holding his breath in horror, picturing that scenario. Hartnell must have taken samples from the desert tomb and cultured vast loads of the plague-carrying microbe. Knowing now what the man intended to do with it, Painter understood the purpose for the station’s ground installation.

“The Aurora Array,” he sputtered out. “You’re planning on using it to energize that load after it’s sent up there.”

“If my calculations and early prototypes hold true, the microbes should successfully store that energy.” Hartnell looked up as if staring at the sky. “I envision the entire ionosphere seeded with Tesla’s Pestis fulmen, a living, electron-breathing battery, one capable of storing not only energy passed up to it, but also collecting the natural electrical currents tracing through the ionosphere, driven by the solar winds.”

“It would be a limitless power source.”

Hartnell’s gaze settled back to Painter. “Like Nikola, I see power plants around the world, even homes, with towers similar to the one outside, capable of tapping into the battery. Like a million Tesla coils hooked to the sky.”

This scheme was beyond grand.

“Just think of it. No more burning fossil fuels, no more tearing apart the earth for resources, no more pouring carbon dioxide into the air. And there’s an added bonus.”

“What’s that?”

“The crimson hue of the microbe would act as a natural sunscreen. A very mild one, but enough to push us back from the brink of turning this planet into a burnt cinder.”

Painter appreciated his vision, but he could also think of a thousand variables that could turn this project into an unmitigated disaster — especially with regards to one glaringly obvious problem.

“But this organism is deadly… extinction-level-event deadly.”

Simon sighed. “That’s why we need the cure. I’m ready to perform a localized test in a couple of days. The conditions are perfect with the current geomagnetic storm, which is coursing the ionosphere with energy, the perfect soil in which to plant my seeds.”

“But you don’t have the cure.”

“I could if you’d get your partner to cooperate. To return what they stole. I believe Dr. al-Maaz and Rory were close to a breakthrough, something that could help us discover the reins to control this unruly beast.”

Painter now understood why Hartnell was being so forthcoming. “And if I don’t help?”

Hartnell shrugged. “I’ll still conduct the test.”

Painter stiffened, the cuffs digging into his wrists. “What? Are you mad?”

“Not at all. I’m confident it would be harmless. Tesla has already supplied us with a failsafe. I could simply overcharge the ionosphere with the array, sterilizing what’s up there, and achieve the same result.”

Painter remembered the Francis Bacon quote he had read.

Cure the disease, kill the patient.

If not careful, this madman could do the same — only on a global level.

“But, of course, I’d prefer not to do that,” Hartnell said, narrowing his eyes on Painter. “Especially if you help me find your friends.”

Exhausted, Kat let the Sno-Cat trundle down the next pass on its own, barely holding the wheel. Gusts pushed the vehicle from behind, as if encouraging them to get into the shelter of the next valley. Dark clouds roofed the world, brushing the ice-capped mountains on all sides.

Even in the eternal twilight of the storm, the view ahead was breathtaking.

The huge valley stretched in either direction, its ends lost in the mists. Directly below, a long, thin lake filled the basin. It was still frozen over, but some edges flashed a brilliant blue, indicative of the first signs of a summer thaw. Deeper into the lake, large black islands rose from the white ice.

“Lake Hazen,” Kat mumbled.

Safia stirred, raising her head from where it had been leaning on the window.

Kat pointed below, hoping she had memorized the island map correctly on the flight here. “If that’s Lake Hazen, we should be halfway to Alert.”

“You don’t look even a quarter alert,” Safia teased. “Maybe we should take a rest. There’s been no other sign of anyone on our tail for the past two hours.”

After the ghostly passage of the caribou herd, Kat had sent their Sno-Cat into a region of barren rock to better hide their tracks, avoiding snow and ice. She didn’t know if she had lost her pursuers or if they had even been there at all.

“Maybe you’re right. If nothing else, I need to stretch my legs.”

“Me, too,” Rory said from the backseat.

Not likely, buddy.

Kat aimed for the nearest blue spot, where a thin river trickled into the lake. They could use more water. Safia had finished the last bottle from the emergency pack found in the back.

“Look at all the flowers,” Safia said dreamily.

To either side of the Cat, the slopes were covered in purple saxifrage and arctic poppies. Even the rocks and boulders supported moss and yellow lichen.

Kat took heart at the signs of life. She guided the vehicle down and parked at the shale-encrusted bank of the lake. “I’ll fill up our water bottles.”

“What about Rory?” Safia asked.

“He stays put.”

Upon hearing this, Rory slumped in his seat.

Kat gathered the empty bottles and cracked her door. The wind came close to tearing it out of her grip. The cold woke her up immediately, but she didn’t mind. The air was crisp, smelling of ice. She hurried to the lake and topped off the bottles. In just a few seconds of touching that water, her fingers went numb from the cold.

She gathered the bottles and hunkered back against the wind. She had not had time to grab parkas during their hurried escape.

Okay, that’s about all the fresh air I can take.

She climbed into the heated cab of the Cat and slammed the door.

Safia was turned in her seat, talking to Rory. “What happened after you and your father reached that tomb in the desert?”

Rory shook his head. “My father wanted to go in first. You know how he could be. He left me outside with two of the survey crew. The rest went in with him.”

Rory glanced away, as if the memory was painful. “One of the crew hit a booby trap or mishandled something. I never got a good answer. All I heard was a bunch of yelling. I tried to go in, but my father warned me to stay away. Those inside were all contaminated in the enclosed space. From the records of what happened at the British Museum, my father knew the danger, knew the safest thing was for everyone afflicted to remain below.”

“What did you do?”

He made a scoffing noise. “I panicked. I called Simon Hartnell.”

Kat had already heard part of the story on the ride over, learning how Hartnell had been secretly funding and guiding Rory, who in turn manipulated his father.

“Simon sent over a medical team,” Rory explained. “They buttoned everything up. There was some debate about trying to move the group to a hospital, but without knowing how communicable it was, it was decided to care for the men on-site.”

“Was that Hartnell’s decision?” Kat asked, figuring the man would do anything to keep his secret.

Rory turned to her. “No, it was my father’s.” He gave a tired shake of his head. “But I think his decision was based on a desire to remain at the site, to be the first to explore everything. I don’t think he was concerned about the possible spread of the disease. I mean, look what he did in the end.”

“So your father survived his initial exposure.”

“Out of pure stubbornness more than anything. Two others also lived. But five men died.”

“And after that?” Safia asked.

“Everything got locked down. I was flown here to work on the project.”

Kat nodded to his missing finger. “And to ensure your father cooperated.”

Rory stared at his hand and shrugged. “I accidentally shattered my finger after I got here. It had to be amputated anyway.”

Kat could only imagine how horrified Professor McCabe must have been when they delivered his son’s severed finger.

“My father worked the next twenty months searching for the cure. He discovered not only the tattooed mummy, but a whole batch of others. He tested all their tissues, everything in that damned place, trying to find the answer.”

“But nothing worked?” Safia said.

“I think he must have gone a little mad in the end. Even tried to go through the ritual of self-mummification, to follow in the ancients’ footsteps.” Rory snorted. “Then he simply escaped. He waited until there was a rotation of researchers, when only two scientists and two guards were on the premises. He broke into a weapons locker and stole a rifle.”

“He killed them all?”

“Only the guards. He tied up the researchers, then fled.” Rory stared out at the frozen lake. “I don’t understand… so many have died because of him.”

Kat felt no need to console Rory, but she did anyway. “I don’t think he meant to. We believe that act of mummification made him noncontagious. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a cure. He still died from the pathogen, but I think he was trying to reach civilization, to warn about what was going on.”

Rory turned back, his eyes welling with tears. “But he didn’t have to do that. I didn’t want him to die.”

Safia leaned back to the boy, resting her fingers on his knee.

Kat did not share her sympathy.

You made this bed.

“What about afterward?” Kat asked. “Why would Hartnell want to destroy all of your father’s work and go after your sister?”

“With all the renewed attention following my father’s reappearance, Simon feared someone might discover the clues found in my dad’s early papers and try to follow those bread crumbs to that location.”

Kat frowned. “So he began cleaning house.”

“Both in London and at the tomb. He removed everything of importance out in the desert, including the enthroned mummy. My father was sure she was vital to the cure.”

And now she’s gone, with only a ghostly digital record left.

Kat glanced at Safia’s pocket.

“What about Jane?” Safia asked.

“Before my father fled, he left a strange sign, addressed to Jane. Simon believed my sister might find some meaning or significance in it. He hoped it might offer some new clue to the cure, something my father discerned near the end but never shared.” Rory looked down. “Personally I think he was just saying good-bye.”

Rory turned away, clearly done talking.

Safia shared a worried glance with Kat, then reached for a water bottle. Her arm visibly trembled.

“Safia…?”

Kat noted how shiny the woman’s face had become. She placed a hand on Safia’s cheek, discovering the smoldering heat there.

“You’re burning up.”

After Painter Crowe had been escorted out of the library, Simon sat quietly for several minutes at his desk. He had given Painter an hour to make up his mind about cooperating — then sterner measures would have to be taken if necessary.

Which might not be the case.

He had heard from Anton twenty minutes ago. Communication with his search team was spotty due to the geomagnetic storm. The only radio that worked was line-of-sight. Anton could only reach Aurora Station from the tops of the mountains, where he could send a direct microwave signal to the base.

The last report was that his team had picked up the Sno-Cat’s trail again.

As Simon sat, he took this into account, his mind running various scenarios and projections through his head. He finally came to a decision and grabbed the phone. He tapped an extension and the project leader — Dr. Sunil Kapoor — promptly picked up. The physicist was likely troubleshooting all systems prior to the test firing of the array in two days.

“Sir?” Kapoor answered, knowing who was calling.

“Change of plans.”

“Yes, sir.”

Simon had weighed the variable concerning the two missing women and decided the risk was too significant to leave to chance — or even to Anton’s skill. If the pair should reach help, everything could be shut down before it was even started.

I can’t let that happen… not when I’m this close.

What was planned was an important proof-of-concept test. Even if those women succeeded, he wanted confirmation his system worked before facing any consequences.

The project here was too important, far larger than any one man.

Even myself.

“We’re moving up the schedule,” he told Kapoor.

“To when, sir?”

“To today.”

21

Gray stood naked under a cold shower.

Sand swirled at his toes. Every muscle ached. He had already scrubbed his body with soap and hot water, and still more stubborn grains rinsed from cracks, crevices, and patches of hair. He was last to shower, so he took his time — to collect himself, to gather his thoughts. The white noise of the spray and the cold helped him focus.

Three hours ago, he had been hiking with Derek and Kowalski, following the trail left by Seichan’s bike, when in the distance a great wall of dust climbed into the burning sky. Vehicles swept down on them, with the Unimog in the middle, flanked by a flock of motorcycles. Behind them came a clutch of camels driven hard by their riders to keep up.

Kowalski had noted their approach. “That’s the most sorry-assed-looking cavalry I’ve ever seen.”

After rejoining the others, they headed straight to Khartoum, using trails known to the nomads. Gray took the wheel of the Unimog, much to the disappointment of Ahmad, who needed to head back to Rufaa to return to his family. The boy was somewhat mollified after Seichan bought his bike — which had seen some rough last miles — for a price that was clearly exorbitant. Happy again, the boy and his dog headed back to his village in the sidecar of his cousin’s cycle.

Seichan remained on the bike for the return trek, circling wide, watching the skies for any sign of a drone and the surrounding desert for any sign of pursuit.

They had safely reached Khartoum and settled into a cheap hotel at the edge of town.

After all that had befallen them, the team seemed to be back where they’d started, and no closer to discovering how to stop the pandemic. When Gray had headed to the shower, he had left Derek and Jane sitting at a table with their heads bent together, comparing notes. Their faces had not looked hopeful.

The door to the bathroom opened. Through the translucent shower curtain, a figure could be seen entering, shedding clothes with every step. Seichan pushed through and climbed in with him. Her only reaction to the cold was to push against him, sliding an arm around his waist. He pulled her closer, sheltering her body with his own.

He reached back to turn the valve to hot.

“Don’t,” she whispered into his chest.

He dropped his arm and held her. It was rare for her to be this tender, this vulnerable. He couldn’t say he didn’t like it. He stayed silent, knowing that’s also what she wanted. Now was not the time for long conversations or heartfelt talks about their future. There was only now, this moment.

I’ll take it.

He clung to her, their skins warming where they touched, cold where not. He felt himself stirring. A moment later they were kissing. But that was as far as matters progressed before there was a knock on the door. They broke apart. Cold water rushed between them, shattering the moment, pushing them farther apart.

“Gray!” It was Kowalski.

He closed his eyes. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Get in line,” Seichan growled.

“Monk’s on the phone! Hurry it up in there.”

Gray pulled back the curtain, stepping away, but turned back to her. He remembered an earlier offer of hers to run away and leave all of this behind them. “Tell me you found another fire escape here.”

“A fire escape?” She reached to the top of the curtain, revealing the full breadth of her body. “You had your chance before. We’re too in the thick of it now. But ask me again later, and who knows?”

She pulled the curtain, leaving the possibility hanging.

As he buffed his body dry, steam rose from the stall, fogging the curtain, but never fully enough to erase the shape luxuriating in the hot water.

He pulled on his dusty clothes.

Definitely murdering the guy.

As he stalked out to the bedroom, he saw Kowalski had left his satellite phone on the nightstand. He picked it up.

“Monk?”

“How’re things in the desert?”

He looked at the closed bathroom door. “Hot. How about in Cairo?”

“Does this answer your question?” A faint spate of gunfire grew louder over the line. “NAMRU is under siege. Some nutcase decided the plague is all an American plot and that the base here is to blame.”

“So just another day.”

“Pretty much. So if you’ve made any headway toward a cure, I’d love to hear about it.”

“ ’Fraid not. We’re still at the knocking-our-heads-together stage.”

A loud blast echoed over the line. “Then knock a little harder.”

“We’ll do our best.” Gray dropped his voice. “But, Monk, are you okay out there?”

“For now. We’ve got both American and Egyptian forces holding down the fort. But we can use some good news.”

“Understood. Watch your back.”

“Back atcha, my friend.”

They signed off.

Gray headed to the others, more determined than ever now, but noted a text message waiting for him. He sighed at the number and pulled up the note:

Groaning, he called his brother’s cell.

Where is that fire escape when you need it?

The phone rang and rang, then finally went to voicemail. He waited for the beep, then said, “Kenny, I got your message. Call back or text. Let me know what’s going on and if there’s anything I can do at my end.”

He hung up the phone, frustrated at not being able to reach him — but also partly relieved. It allowed him to put off the inevitable a little longer. He closed his eyes, feeling guilty for the last part, then shook his head.

One problem at a time.

It was becoming his mantra.

He crossed to the next room. Derek and Jane looked up as he entered. “Any progress?” he asked.

Jane winced, her expression unsure. “Maybe… but it makes no sense.”

And it didn’t…

Jane bit her lip, staring at the spread of paper, at Derek working on his iPad. Her father had left her a cryptic message, dying to deliver it, clearly believing she would readily understand it. To even struggle with the mystery made her feel inadequate, even undeserving of his love.

“Show me,” Gray said. “Talk it out.”

She nodded.

Who says I have to solve this on my own?

Hadn’t her father taught her that true discoveries were a team effort? Not that he necessarily followed that dictate, at least when it came to taking credit. His name somehow always ended up being listed first on published papers.

Jane sighed. “When he circled that butterfly inside the stone heart, marking my name there, it could have been him merely acknowledging my love of butterflies, trying to share this last connection to me.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“My father was often kind, sometimes generous, but never a sentimentalist.”

“No, he was not,” Derek concurred.

“So this last effort had to be more significant,” Gray said.

“I racked my brain about why he would show me this. As I mentioned before, butterflies were a common image in Egyptian art representing transformation. The species typically depicted — as it was inside the heart — was the common tiger monarch, or Danaus chrysippus, a butterfly native to the Nile River basin.”

“We were talking about it earlier,” Derek said. “When she mentioned the scientific name, it struck me. I remembered seeing the butterfly in Livingstone’s old letters. So I showed Jane.”

Derek pulled up the page on his tablet and showed Gray.

“So it’s a sketch of a caterpillar and a butterfly.” Gray squinted at the name and read it off the screen. “Danaus chrysippus, just like you mentioned.”

Jane reached and tapped the image. “Only that is not the common tiger monarch. The spotting on its wings is all wrong. My father would know I would never mistake this image for the true Danaus chrysippus.”

Gray leaned closer. “It must be another of Livingstone’s maps. Like the Egyptian scarab that pointed to the buried goddess.”

Jane nodded. “Yet another map hidden in another Egyptian image.”

“But where’s the map?” Gray asked. “I don’t see it.”

“Watch.” Derek withdrew his tablet to manipulate the image. He tipped the butterfly up on the edge of a wing and showed them.

Then he set to work. “If you erase everything but the spotting in the lower wing, you can see the pattern that remains looks like a series of lakes and interconnecting waterways. And note the small X that Livingstone drew near one of the rivers.”

“Let me guess,” Gray said. “You figured out a place that corresponds to that configuration of rivers and lakes.”

Derek nodded. “It’s just down the road from where we are now… or more precisely, down the river.”

He brought up a tiny map and placed it next to the drawing hidden in Livingstone’s butterfly.

Derek explained, “Look how Lake Victoria matches up, as do the smaller lakes.”

Gray took the pad to examine it closer. “And Livingstone’s X sits along a small river that flows out of Rwanda and into Lake Victoria.”

Jane’s voice sharpened with excitement. “I believe what we’re looking at might be the source of the Nile.”

“Or at least one of the sources,” Derek added. “You can see other rivers flowing into Victoria, which is why the true origin of the Nile is still disputed.”

Gray frowned, looking suddenly concerned.

Jane turned to him. “What’s wrong?”

Gray straightened and pulled out the test tube her father had buried in the sand. He removed the rubber stopper and unrolled the scrap of leather inside, revealing again the faint line of hieroglyphics.

“If I remember right,” he said, “this translates roughly as taking a boat to the mouth of the river. And something about elephants or elephant bones.”

Jane reached for the relic, then pulled her hand back. “The mouth of the river. Maybe that’s referencing the source of the Nile. Just like we were talking about.” She pointed to Derek’s map. “Maybe it’s saying go to that place marked with an X.”

“But how can we be sure?” Derek asked. “How do we know what’s written here is even important?”

Gray pointed to either end of the line of hieroglyphics. “There are a lion and a kneeling woman framing this section. Aren’t those the symbols of Tutu?”

“And they’re also found on Livingstone’s aryballos,” Jane added. “The two symbols are even facing the same direction as the artifact’s profiles.”

Gray looked at her. “Maybe your father recognized the same and cut this section off a mummy he found down there, seeking to hide it. Later he buried it to safeguard it, while leaving behind a clue for you to follow.”

“And don’t forget the elephants,” Kowalski reminded them, his eyes flashing with a bit of excitement. “Remember that cute — I mean small elephant pot we saw before.”

Jane nodded, sensing pieces were starting to come together — but not yet whole. “He’s right.”

Derek suddenly looked sick. “What if whatever was in those pots was the cure?”

Kowalski scowled. “I told you we should’ve taken one.”

“No,” Jane said. “My father would have tested anything found in those pots. That can’t be it.”

“Plus,” Gray added, “whoever cleared the place out would have taken the pots if they thought they were important.”

Jane pointed to Derek’s map. “The answer must be there. My father knew it, but he couldn’t get there himself, and he didn’t want his captors to know about it.”

“So he tried to escape and reach help.” Derek turned to Jane. “And knowing he might fail, he left clues for his daughter to follow.”

She knew Derek was right. With tears threatening, she turned away.

From the next room, Seichan entered, toweling her hair. She must have sensed the tension and excitement. “What’s going on?”

Gray smiled. “Time to pack your bags.”

Kowalski rubbed his palms together. “We’re gonna find us some elephants.”

Valya refused to take any more chances.

She waited at a small airstrip outside Khartoum. The sun had baked the sand and dirt to a concrete hardness. The field was not on any map. It was used by drug smugglers and Sudanese rebels. The police and army were paid well to look the other way.

For all intents and purposes, this place didn’t exist.

She took solace in this fact. This was her true home, the cracks of the world. After plunging her grandmother’s dagger into the neck of the man who killed their mother, she took her brother and fled into those cracks, where, whether out of distaste or fear, no one truly looked. Back then, she and Anton had each other.

But no longer.

Anton had found a new home, a new heart.

So be it.

She would return to where she belonged, with or without him.

A grumble of an engine drew her attention to the right. An open-air truck crossed through a gate in a dilapidated chain link fence. A dark-skinned former Sudanese soldier with an assault rifle waved them through. Valya stepped around the parked Cessna to meet the truck.

Kruger hopped out, followed by four of his men. They were all that had survived the destruction under the desert hills. Four others had died. He had lost half his teammates down that hole. Kruger wore those deaths on his face as he stalked over. It had not been hard to convince him of the change in plans.

“Well?” she asked.

He nodded, rubbing a set of raw and bloody knuckles. “Took some convincing, but I confirmed what you overheard. Their flight manifest has them flying into Rwanda.”

Valya had kept her distance from the enemy after being ambushed by the nomads in the desert. While Seichan and Jane McCabe had regrouped at the dunes, she had used the sharp eyes of the Raven in the sky to spot where the boy had abandoned the Unimog. She circled to that spot while the others were distracted, slowing to limit her dust trail. She finished her mission from last night and buried a GPS transmitter in the truck’s wheel well — then sped off to rejoin Kruger.

She took a deep breath now, stretching her neck. She felt looser, less constrained, freer than in many years. Her mistake earlier had been to fixate on completing the task assigned her. While focused on capturing Jane McCabe, she had let her attention on the fleeing truck lapse, even pulling the Raven assigned to it, allowing the boy to meet up with his people unseen.

That would not happen again.

After joining Kruger, she had easily tracked the truck’s journey back to Khartoum and discovered where the group had holed up. Still, she kept her distance, having learned her lesson. From a quarter-mile away, she had eavesdropped upon their conversation, listening with a laser microphone, its invisible infrared beam fixed to the window, picking up minute vibrations in the glass and whispering their words in her ears. Unfortunately, such technology was not flawless. Words were missed. The conversation had annoying gaps. She got the gist of where they planned to go, but she had wanted confirmation and sent Kruger to get it.

It seemed her targets had hired a bush plane — a Cessna 208 Caravan — to ferry them south to Rwanda. She would follow them, even taking the same plane, only hers was a military variant arranged by friends of Kruger. It was a Combat Caravan, a plane used by rebels throughout the region, even in Iraq.

She glanced under the wings to the payload mounted there.

Two AGM-114 Hellfire missiles.

The edges of her lips tugged up in satisfaction.

She was done bowing to masters, of being reined in by their restraints and goaded into making mistakes to meet their expectations. She intended to be free again, free to return to cracks in this world. Knowing that, she saw no need to adhere to the prior restrictions placed on her.

“So are we sticking with the new plan?” Kruger asked as he stepped into the plane.

She followed him inside. “Yes, we kill them all.”