DECEMBER 2, 08:24 P.M.
OLD TOWN, MUSCAT
WHERE THE hell’s Safia?” Omaha asked, checking his watch.
It was ten minutes past the time they were all supposed to gather for dinner. The woman he had known in the past was painfully punctual, something drilled into her at Oxford. It was her attention to detail that made her such an accomplished curator.
“Shouldn’t she be here by now?” he said.
“I had a bath drawn for her,” Kara announced as she stepped into the room. “A maid just went up with fresh clothes.”
Kara entered, resplendent in a traditional Omani thob gown of flowing red silk with gold filigree embroidered along the hems. She abandoned any headdress, leaving her auburn hair free, and wore Prada sandals. As always, to Kara, a line had to be drawn between the traditional and the fashionable.
“A bath?” Omaha groaned. “Then we’ll never see her this evening.”
Safia loved water in all its forms: showers, fountains, flowing taps, dips in streams and lakes, but especially baths. He used to tease her, attributing her fixation to her desert past. You can take the girl out of the desert, but never the desert out of the girl.
With this thought, other uninvited memories intruded, of long baths shared, limbs entwined, laughter, soft moans, steam off water and skin.
“She’ll be along when she’s ready,” Kara warned, protective, drawing him back to the room. She nodded to the household butler. “We’ll be serving a light Omani dinner before we head out in a couple of hours. Please sit.”
Everyone found seats, dividing into party lines. Painter and Coral sat on one side, along with Safia’s graduate student, Clay. Danny and Omaha took seats on the other. Lastly, Kara settled on the lone chair at the head of the table.
Upon some unseen signal, servants paraded through a set of swinging doors from the kitchen hallway. They bore aloft covered trays, some held above their heads on a single palm. Others carried wider trays in both arms.
As each platter was lowered to the table, the servant stepped deftly back, lifting the lids to expose what lay beneath. It was all clearly choreographed.
Kara named each dish as it was revealed. “Maqbous…saffron rice over lamb. Shuwa…pork cooked in clay ovens. Mashuai…spit-fired kingfish served with lemon rice.” She named a handful of other curried dishes. Amid the feast were plates of thin, oval breads. They were familiar to Omaha. The ubiquitous rukhal bread of Oman, baked over burning palm leaves.
Kara finally finished her introductions. “And lastly, honeycakes, one of my favorites, flavored with the syrup from the native elb tree.”
“What…no sheep’s eyes?” Omaha mumbled.
Kara heard him. “That delicacy can be arranged.”
He held up a conciliatory palm. “I’ll pass this time.”
Kara waved a hand over the spread. “Tradition among the Omani is to serve oneself. Please enjoy.”
The group took her at her word and proceeded to spoon, spear, ladle, and grab. Omaha filled a cup from the tall pot. Kahwa. Omani coffee. Deadly strong. Arabs might shun alcohol, but they had no qualms about caffeine addiction. He took a deep sip and sighed. The bitter tang of the thick coffee was softened by cardamom, a distinct and welcome after-taste.
Conversation centered initially on the quality of the fare. Mostly murmurs of surprise at the tenderness of the meat or the fire of the spices. Clay seemed content to fill his plate with honeycakes. Kara merely picked at her food, keeping a watch on the servants, guiding with a nod or turn of her head.
Omaha studied her while sipping his kahwa.
She was thinner, more wasted than when last he saw her. Kara’s eyes still shone, but now appeared more fevered. Omaha knew how much effort she had invested in this trip. And he knew why. Safia and he had kept few secrets…at least back then. He knew all about Reginald Kensington. His portrait stared down at Kara from the wall behind her. Did she still feel those eyes?
Omaha imagined he’d be no better if his own father had vanished into the desert, sucked out of this world. But thank God, it required his imagination to fathom such a loss. His father, at eighty-two, still worked the family farm back in Nebraska. He ate four eggs, a rasher of bacon, and a pile of buttered toast each breakfast and smoked a cigar each night. His mother was even more fit. Solid stock, his father used to brag. Just like my boys.
As Omaha thought of his family, his brother’s sharp voice drew his attention from Kara. Danny was elaborating on the escapade of the midday abduction, using his fork as much as his voice to tell the story. Omaha recognized the flush of excitement as he relived the day’s events. He shook his head, hearing the bluster and swagger in his younger brother. Omaha had once been the same. Immortal. Armored in youth.
No longer.
He stared down at his own hands. They were lined and scarred, his father’s hands. He listened to Danny’s story. It had not been the grand adventure his brother related. It had been deadly-serious business.
A new voice interrupted. “A woman?” Painter Crowe asked with a frown. “One of your kidnappers was a woman?”
Danny nodded. “I didn’t see her, but my brother did.”
Omaha found the other man’s eyes turning to him, a piercing blue. His brow furrowed, his gaze concentrating attention like a well-focused laser.
“Is this true?” Crowe asked.
Omaha shrugged, taken aback by his intensity.
“What did she look like?”
This last was spoken too quickly. Omaha answered slowly, watching the pair. “She was tall. My height. From the way she handled herself, I’d say she had military training.”
Painter glanced at his partner. A silent message seemed to pass between them. They knew something they weren’t telling. The scientist faced Omaha again. “And her appearance?”
“Black hair and green eyes. Bedouin descent. And oh, a small red teardrop tattoo by one eye…her left.”
“Bedouin,” Painter repeated. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve worked this region for the past fifteen years. I can tell individual tribe members and clans apart.”
“Which tribe was the woman from?”
“Hard to say. I didn’t get a long enough look at her.”
Painter leaned back, clearly the thread of tension in him broken. His partner reached for one of the honeycakes, placed it on her plate, and ignored it. Neither exchanged a glance this time, but something had been resolved.
“Why the interest?” Kara asked, voicing Omaha’s own thought.
Painter shrugged. “If it was a random abduction for profit, then it probably doesn’t matter. But if not…if it was connected to the museum heist in some manner, I think we should all know who to keep an eye out for.”
His words sounded reasonable enough, practical and scientific, but Omaha sensed something deeper lay behind his expressed interest.
Kara let it drop. She glanced to her diamond Rolex. “Where is Safia? Surely she’s not still in the bath?”
09:12 P.M.
SAFIA KEPT her breathing shallow.
She had no phobia of snakes, but she had learned to respect them while exploring dusty ruins. They were as much a part of the desert as the sand and wind. She sat perfectly still in the bath. The waters cooled as she waited…or maybe it was the fear chilling her.
The carpet viper draped over her left breast seemed to have settled in for a good long soak. Safia recognized the roughness of its outer skin. It was an old specimen, making the shedding of its skin especially difficult.
Again movement caught her eye, beyond the window. But as she searched, the darkness lay still and quiet.
Paranoia that often preceded a panic attack, an all-consuming anxiety that saw threat and danger where none existed. Her attacks were more commonly triggered by emotional stress or tension, not physical threats. In fact, the surge of adrenaline from immediate danger was a good buffer against the electric cascade of a panic episode. Still, the strain of outwaiting the viper had begun to wear thin the veneer of Safia’s buffer.
The symptoms of a carpet-viper bite were immediate and severe: blackened skin, fire in the blood, convulsions that broke bones. There was no known antidote.
A small tremor began in her hands.
No known antidote…
She forced herself to calm.
Safia slowly exhaled, again watching the snake. She inhaled even more slowly, savoring the sweetness of fresh air. The scent of jasmine, a pleasure earlier, was now cloying.
A knock at her door startled her.
She jumped slightly. Water rippled around her.
The viper lifted its head. She felt the rest of the snake’s body harden against her bare belly, tensing, wary.
“Mistress al-Maaz,” a voice called from the hall.
She did not answer.
The snake sampled the air with its tongue. Its body slid higher up, pushing its triangular head toward her throat.
“Mistress?”
It was Henry, the household butler. He must have come to see if she had fallen asleep. The others would be in the dining hall. There was no clock in the room, but it felt like the entire night had passed.
In the deadly silence, the sound of a key scraping in the old lock reached her. The creak of the outer door followed.
“Mistress al-Maaz…?” Less muffled now. “I’m sending Liza in.”
For Henry, ever the efficient English butler, it would be unseemly to enter a lady’s apartment, especially when the lady was in her bath. Tiny, hurried footsteps crossed the rooms, aiming for the back bathroom.
All the commotion agitated the snake. It rose up between her breasts like her venomous champion. Carpet vipers were notoriously aggressive, known to chase a man a full kilometer if threatened.
But this viper, lethargic from its soaking, made no move to strike.
“Hello,” a timid voice called just outside the door.
Safia had no way to warn the maid off.
A young girl kept her head bowed shyly as she crept into the doorway, her dark hair braided under a lace cap. From two steps away, she mumbled, “I’m sorry to disturb your bath, mistress.”
She finally glanced up, met Safia’s eyes—then the snake’s as it rose higher, hissing in threat, coiling in anticipation. Wet scales sawed together with a sound like sandpaper.
The maid’s hand flew to her mouth, but it failed to stifle her scream.
Drawn by the noise and movement, the snake surged from the water, flying bodily over the wide tiled lip of the tub, aiming for the girl.
The maid was too frightened to move.
Safia was not.
She instinctively grabbed for the viper’s tail as it leaped, catching it up in midstrike. She yanked it back from the maid and swung its length wide. But it was no limp piece of rope.
Muscles writhed in her hand, hard under her fingers. She felt more than saw the snake coil around upon itself, ready to strike at what had snatched it. Safia kicked her feet, trying to gain purchase to stand, to get some advantage. The slippery tiles kept betraying her. Water slopped across the floor.
The viper struck at her wrist. Only a quick twist and whip of her arm kept fangs from flesh. But like a skilled combatant, the old snake contorted for another attempt.
Safia finally gained her legs. She spun around in the tub, swinging her arm wide, using centrifugal force to keep the snake’s head from reaching her. Instinct made her want to fling it away. But that didn’t ensure the end of the battle. The bathroom was small, the aggression of the viper notorious.
Instead, she cracked out her arm. She had used a bullwhip before, having given one to Omaha as a silly Christmas gift, playing off Kara’s persistence in referring to him as Indiana. She used the same technique now, snapping her wrist with a well-practiced twist.
The viper, dazed from the spin, failed to react in time. Its length responded to age-old physics and whipped outward. Its head struck the tiled wall with enough impact to chip ceramic.
Blood spurted in a spray of crimson.
The body convulsed a beat in her hand, then dropped limply, splashing back into the bathwater around her thighs.
“Mistress al-Maaz!”
Safia turned her head and found the butler, Henry, in the doorway, drawn by the maid’s scream. He had a hand on the terrified girl’s shoulder.
Safia stared down at the limp snake, at her own nakedness. She should have felt shame and tried to cover herself, but instead she let the scaled body slip from her fingers and stepped from the bath.
Only the trembling of her fingers betrayed her.
Henry collected a large cotton towel from a warming rack. He held it open. Safia stepped forward, and Henry folded her into its embrace.
Tears began to flow, her breath shortened painfully.
Through the window, the moon had risen, peeking over the palace wall. For half a breath, something darker fluttered over its surface. Safia startled, but then it was gone.
Just a bat, the nocturnal predator of the desert.
Still, her trembling grew worse while Henry’s arms grew stronger, holding her up, carrying her to the bed in the next room.
“You’re safe,” he whispered in a fatherly fashion.
She knew his words could not be further from the truth.
09:22 P.M.
OUTSIDE THE window, Cassandra crouched in the bushes. She had watched the museum curator deal with the snake, moving lithely, dispatching it with alacrity. She had hoped to wait until the woman was gone, then quickly abscond with the luggage that housed the iron heart. The viper had turned out to be an unwelcome visitor for the both of them.
But unlike the curator, Cassandra knew the presence of the snake was deliberate, planted, planned.
She had caught the barest reflection in the window, mirrored silver in the moonlight. Another presence. Climbing the wall.
Cassandra had dropped down and away, her back to the palace, a pistol in each hand, twin black matte Glocks, pulled from shoulder holsters. She caught the sight of the cloaked figure sailing over the outer wall.
Gone.
An assassin?
Someone had shared the garden with her…and she’d been unaware.
Damn foolish…
Anger quickened her thoughts as she recalculated the night’s plan. With the commotion in the curator’s room, the likelihood of absconding with the artifact dimmed.
But the cloaked thief…that was another matter entirely.
She had already obtained the intelligence on the attempted abduction of Omaha and Daniel Dunn. It was unclear if the attack was mere unlucky chance: wrong time, wrong place. Or if it was something more meaningful, a calculated attack, an attempt at collecting ransom from the Kensington estate.
And now this threat to the curator’s life.
It could not be pure chance. There must be a connection, something unknown to the Guild, a third party involved in all this. But how and why?
All this ran through her head in a heartbeat.
Cassandra tightened her grip on her pistols.
Answers could come from only one place.
Crossing her arms, Cassandra holstered both pistols and unhooked the grappling gun from her belt. She aimed, pulled the trigger, and heard the zip of the steel cord sailing upward. She was on the move when the grappling hook clunked against the wall’s lip. She squeezed the retracting winch. In the time it took to reach the wall, the steel cable had drawn taut and hauled her weight upward. Her soft-heeled shoes scaled the wall as the grappling motor whined.
Reaching the top, she straddled the parapet and resecured the grappling gun. Searching below, she snapped down her night-vision goggles. The dark alleyway bloomed into crisp greens and whites.
Across the way, a cloaked figure slunk along the far wall, aiming for the neighboring street.
The assassin.
Cassandra gained her feet atop the glass-strewn parapet and ran in the direction of the cloaked thief. Her footfalls must have been heard. Her target sped faster with a swirl of shadow.
Damn it.
Cassandra reached a spot along the wall where another date palm rose from within the walled compound. Its fronded leaves fanned wide, shading both sides of the wall, blocking her run.
Without slowing, Cassandra kept one eye on her quarry. As she reached the tree, she lunged out, grabbed a handful of leaves, and leaped off the twenty-foot wall. Her purchase gave way under her weight. Leaves ripped from between her gloved fingers, but the temporary support helped break her fall. She landed in the alley, her knees absorbing the impact.
She shot after her quarry, who vanished down a cross street.
Cassandra subvocalized into her controls. An overlay map of the immediate cityscape appeared within her goggles. It took a practiced eye to interpret the mishmash of imagery.
Here in Old Town, there was no rhyme or reason to the layout. The surrounding environment was a labyrinth of alleys and cobbled streets.
If the thief escaped into that twisted maze…
Cassandra sped faster. The other had to be slowed. Her digital overlay showed the side street to be less than thirty yards long before it crisscrossed more alleys.
Cassandra had only one chance.
She dove for the corner, yanking her grappling gun free. As she slid into the street, she quickly tracked and locked her quarry, thirty yards away.
She pulled the trigger.
The zip of cable hissed. The grappling hook shot in a low arc down the alley, passing over the shoulder of her mark.
Cassandra squeezed the retractor, reversing the winch, while yanking back with her own arm. Like fly-fishing.
The hooks dug into the other’s shoulder, spinning the figure, legs flailing.
Cassandra allowed herself a grim smile of satisfaction.
She savored her victory too soon.
Her adversary continued the spin, unwinding a fan of cloak, pulling free of the garment with a skill that would have astounded Houdini. Moonlight cast the figure as bright as midday through the night-vision goggles.
A woman.
She landed with feline grace upon one hand, springing back to her toes. With a sweep of dark hair, she sped down the street.
Cassandra swore and gave pursuit. A part of her appreciated her target’s skill and the challenge. Another wanted to shoot the woman in the back for making her night that much longer. But she needed answers.
She dogged the woman, whose movement was lithe and surefooted. Cassandra had been a champion sprinter in high school and only got faster during her rigorous Special Forces training. Being one of the first women in the Army Rangers, she needed to be fast.
Her target fled around another corner.
By this time at night, the streets were empty, except for a few crouched dogs and scurrying cats. After sundown, Old Town locked itself up and shuttered its windows, leaving the streets dark. Occasional bits of music or laughter echoed from inner courtyards. A few lights shone from upper balconies, but even these were barred against intrusion.
Cassandra checked her digital overlay. A smile stretched her lips thin. The warren of alleys into which her quarry had fled was circuitous but ultimately a dead end, terminating against the towering flank of the ancient fort of Jalai. The walled fortress had no entrance on this side.
Cassandra kept pace. In her head, she planned her assault. She freed one of her Glocks. With her other hand, she tapped her radio. “I’ll need evac in ten,” she subvocalized. “Fix on my GPS.”
The response was terse. “We copy. Evac in ten.”
As planned, the team subcommander would send out a trio of modified dirt bikes with silenced mufflers, solid rubber tires, and jacked engines. Automobiles had limited mobility in Old Town’s narrow passages. The bikes suited the region better. Cassandra’s expertise: fitting the right tool to the right job. By the time she had her target cornered, backup would be riding at her heels. She would only have to hold the woman at bay. If there was any resistance, a bullet to a knee should dampen the other’s spirit.
Ahead, a flash of white limb on her night-vision scope alerted Cassandra that her target was slowing, the distances closing. She must be realizing the trap she had run into.
Cassandra paced the other, keeping her in sight.
Finally, a last twist of narrow alley revealed the towering Jalai fort. The storefronts to either side ran up against the structure, creating a box canyon.
The woman, stripped of her cloak, wore only a loose white shift. She stood at the base of the fort’s sheer sandstone wall, staring upward. The closest purchase or opening was thirty feet up. If the woman attempted to scale the neighboring storefront rooftops, Cassandra would discourage her with a few well-placed shots from her Glock.
Cassandra stepped into the alley, blocking any escape.
The woman sensed her and turned from the fort wall to face her.
Cassandra flipped up her night-vision scope. The moon illuminated the alley well enough. She preferred her natural vision in close quarters.
With her Glock conspicuously pointed forward, Cassandra closed the distance. “Don’t move,” she said in Arabic.
Ignoring her, the woman shrugged a shoulder. Her shift dropped from her form and pooled around her ankles, leaving her naked in the street. Long of limb, bearing apple-size breasts, and bending a shapely long neck, she seemed unabashed by her nakedness, a rarity in Arabia. There was a measure of nobility to her pose, a Greek statue of an Arab princess. Her only jewelry was a small ruby tattoo by her left eye. A teardrop.
The woman spoke for the first time, slowly, warning in her voice. Her words, though, were not Arabic. With a background in linguistics, Cassandra was fluent in a dozen languages, efficient in a score of others. She bent an ear to the words, sensing a familiarity but unable to pin it down.
Before Cassandra could discern anything else, the naked woman stepped barefoot from her clothes and backed into the shadow of the towering wall. Moving from moonlight into darkness, her form vanished for a breath.
Cassandra stepped forward, maintaining the distance between them.
She stared harder.
No.
She flipped down her night-vision goggles. Shadows dissolved. The sandstone cliff of the fort sharpened into focus. She searched right and left.
The woman was nowhere in sight.
Cassandra rushed forward, pistol raised. She reached the wall in seven steps. One hand went out, touching the stone to ensure it was real, solid. With her back to the wall, she scanned the alley with her night-vision goggles. No movement, no sign of the woman.
Impossible.
It was as if she had turned to shadow and vanished.
A veritable djinn, a ghost of the desert.
Cassandra only had to stare at the pile of discarded clothes to know better. Since when did ghosts wear cloaks?
A crunch of gravel and a low growl drew her attention to the entrance to the alley. A small motorbike rounded the bend, flanked by two others. Her backup.
With a final check around, Cassandra crossed to them. She spun in circles twice more. When she reached the lead bike, she asked, “Did you see a naked woman in the alley on your way here?”
The rider’s face was masked, but confusion shone in his eyes. “Naked?”
Cassandra heard the negation in his voice. “Never mind.”
She climbed onto the bike behind the rider. The night had been a bust. Something strange was afoot out here. She needed time to sort it out.
She tapped the man’s shoulder. He swung the bike around and the trio fled back the way they had come, aiming for the empty warehouse they had rented at the docks for their base of operations in Muscat. It was time to finish the mission assigned her. It would have been easier with the iron heart in her hands. But contingencies were already in place. By midnight, they would move forward with the plans to eliminate Crowe’s expeditionary force.
Her mind ran over the final details that needed to be arranged, but she had a hard time concentrating. What had happened to the woman? Had there been a secret door into the fort? One unknown to her intel. It was the only explanation.
As she pondered the strangeness, the woman’s words echoed in her head.
The muffled rev of the bikes helped her focus.
Where had she heard that language?
She glanced back at the ancient fort of Jalai, its towers thrust up into moonlight above the lower buildings. An ancient structure, from a lost era.
Then it struck her. The familiarity of the language.
Not modern. Ancient.
In her head, the words played out again, thick with warning. Though she still didn’t understand, she knew what she was hearing. A dead language.
Aramaic.
The language of Jesus Christ.
10:28 P.M.
HOW DID it get in there?” Painter asked. He stood by the entrance to the bath, staring at the floating length of dead snake among the jasmine petals.
The entire dining party had heard the maid’s scream and come running. They had been held at bay by the butler until Kara could help Safia into a robe.
Kara answered his question from her seat beside her friend on the bed, “Bloody buggers are always turning up, even in the plumbing. Safia’s rooms had been closed off for years. It could’ve been nesting anywhere in here. When we aired out her rooms and cleaned the place, it must have been disturbed, then was drawn out by the water in the tub.”
“Shedding,” Safia whispered hoarsely.
Kara had given her a pill. Its effect had lazed the woman’s tongue, but she seemed calmer than when the group first arrived. Her wet hair hung damply to her skin. Color slowly returned. “Shedding snakes seek water.”
“Then more likely it came from outside,” Omaha added. The archaeologist stood by the arch into the study. The others waited out in the hall.
Kara patted Safia’s knee and stood up. “Either way, the matter’s over. It’s best that we get ready for our departure.”
“Surely it can be put off a day,” Omaha said, glancing at Safia.
“No.” Safia pushed past the sedative haze. “I can manage.”
Kara nodded. “We’re due to rendezvous at the port at midnight.”
Painter held up a hand. “You never did tell us how we’d be traveling.”
Kara waved away his words like a foul smell. “You’ll all see when we get there. I have a thousand last minute details to attend to.” She strode past Omaha and out of the rooms. Her words carried back as she addressed the others in the hall. “Gather in the courtyard in an hour.”
Omaha and Painter stood across the room from each other, on either side of Safia. Neither man moved, both equally unsure if it was appropriate to comfort Safia. The matter was settled by Henry stepping through the archway, the butler’s arms full of folded clothing.
Henry nodded to the two men. “Sirs, I’ve rung for a maid to help Mistress al-Maaz dress and gather her things. If you would be so kind…” He nodded toward the door, dismissing them.
Painter stepped closer to Safia. “Are you sure you’re okay to travel?”
She nodded, an effort. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”
“Just the same. I’ll wait outside in the hall for you.”
This earned him the smallest smile. He found himself matching it.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said.
He turned. “I know, but I’ll be there anyway.”
Painter found Omaha studying him, his eyes slightly more narrowed than a moment before. The man’s expression was tight. He was clearly suspicious, but also a trace of anger lay under the surface.
As Painter crossed toward the door, Omaha made no room to allow him to pass. He had to turn sideways to get by.
As he did so, Omaha addressed Safia. “You did good in there, babe.”
“It was just a snake,” she answered, standing to accept the clothes from the butler. “And I have a lot to do before we leave.”
Omaha sighed. “All right. I hear you.” He followed Painter out the door.
The others had all cleared, leaving the hallway empty.
Painter moved to take a post beside the door. Omaha started to march past him, but Painter cleared his throat. “Dr. Dunn…”
The archaeologist stopped, glancing sidelong at him.
“That snake,” Painter said, following a thread left untied earlier. “You said you thought it came from outside. Why?”
Omaha shrugged, stepping back a bit. “Can’t say for sure. But carpet vipers like the afternoon sun, especially when shedding. So I can’t imagine it was holed up in there all day.”
Painter stared over at the closed door. Safia’s room had an eastern exposure. Morning sunlight only. If the archaeologist was correct, the snake would’ve had to travel a long way from a sunny roost to the tub.
Omaha read his thoughts. “You don’t think someone put it there?”
“Maybe I’m just being too paranoid. But didn’t some militant group once try to kill Safia?”
The man scowled, an expression worn into the lines of his face. “That was five years ago. Way up in Tel Aviv. Besides, if someone planted that snake, it couldn’t have been those bastards.”
“Why’s that?”
Omaha shook his head. “The extremist group was rooted out by Israeli commandos a year later. Wiped out, actually.”
Painter knew the details. It was Dr. Dunn who had helped the Israelis hunt the extremists down, using his contacts in the area.
Omaha mumbled, more to himself than Painter, a bitter tone. “Afterward, I thought Safia would be relieved…would return here…”
It’s not that easy, guy. Painter already had a good fix on Omaha. The man tackled problems head-on, bulled through them without looking back. It wasn’t what Safia needed. He doubted Omaha would ever understand. Still, Painter sensed a well of loss in the man, one that had been filled by the sand of passing years. So he tried to help. “Trauma like that is not overcome by—”
Omaha cut him off sharply. “Yeah, I’ve heard it all before. Thanks, but you’re not my goddamn therapist. Or hers.” He stalked off down the hall, calling back derisively, “And sometimes, doc, a snake is just a snake.”
Painter sighed.
A figure moved from the shadows of a neighboring archway. It was Coral Novak. “That man has issues.”
“Don’t we all.”
“I overheard your conversation,” she said. “Were you just chatting with him, or do you really think another party is involved?”
“There’s definitely someone stirring the pot.”
“Cassandra?”
He slowly shook his head. “No, some unknown variable.”
Coral scowled, which consisted of the barest downturn of the corner of her lips. “That’s not good.”
“No…no, it’s not.”
“And this curator,” Coral persisted, nodding to the door. “You’ve really got the role of the attentive civilian scientist down pat.”
Painter sensed a subtle warning in her voice, a cloaked concern that he might be crossing the line between professionalism and something more personal.
Coral continued, “If there’s another party sniffing around, shouldn’t we be searching the grounds for evidence?”
“Definitely. That’s why you’re going out there now.”
Coral raised an eyebrow.
“I have a door to guard,” he said, answering her unspoken question.
“I understand.” Coral began to turn away. “But are you staying here to safeguard the woman or the mission?”
Painter let command harden his voice. “In this particular case, they’re one and the same.”
11:35 P.M.
SAFIA STARED out at the passing scenery. The two tablets of diazepam kept her head muzzy. Lights from passing streetlamps were phosphorous blurs, smudges of light across the midnight landscape. The buildings were all dark. But ahead, a blaze of light marked the port of Muscat. The commercial harbor was active twenty-four hours a day, kept bright with floodlights and sodium-lit warehouses.
As they rounded a tight turn, the harbor came into view. The bay was mostly empty, most of the oil barges and container ships having docked before sunset. During the night, their cargo would be off-loaded and reloaded. Even now, H-cranes and trundling train-car-size containers swung through the air, like giant toy blocks. Farther out, near the horizon, a behemoth of a cruise liner floated on the dark waters like some candlelit birthday cake, backdropped against a spray of stars.
The limo aimed away from the commotion toward the far side of the harbor, where the more traditional dhow sailing vessels of Arabia stood docked. For thousands of years, Omanis had plied the seas, from Africa to India. The dhows were simple wooden-planked shells with a distinctive triangular sail. They varied in size from the shallow draft of the badan form to the deep-sea baghlah. The proud array of old ships lined the far harbor, stacked close together, sails furled, masts poking high amid tangles of ropes.
“We’re almost there,” Kara mumbled to Safia from the other side of the limo. The only other occupant, besides the driver and a bodyguard, was Safia’s student, Clay Bishop. He snorted a bit when Kara spoke, half drowsing.
Behind them trailed the other limo with all the Americans: Painter and his partner, Omaha and his brother.
Safia sat straighter now. Kara had yet to tell her how they were getting to Salalah, only that they were heading to the harbor. So she guessed they would be traveling by boat. Salalah was a coastal city, like Muscat, and travel between the two cities was almost easier by sea than by air. Transports, both cargo and passenger, left throughout the day and night. They varied from diesel-engine ferries to a pair of lightning-fast hydrofoils. Considering Kara’s urgency to be under way, Safia guessed they’d be taking the fastest vessel possible.
The limo turned through the gated entry, followed by its twin. Both continued down the pier, passing rows and rows of docked dhows. Safia was familiar with the regular passenger terminal. This wasn’t it. They were heading down the wrong pier.
“Kara…?” she began.
The limo cleared the last harbor office at the end of the pier. Parked beyond, lit by lights and crowded with clusters of line-haulers and dock-workers, stood a magnificent sight. From the commotion and the unfurled sails, there could be no doubt this was their transportation.
“No,” Safia mumbled.
“Yes,” Kara answered, sounding none too pleased.
“Holy Christ,” Clay said, leaning forward, the better to see.
Kara checked her watch. “I couldn’t refuse the sultan when he offered us its use.”
The limo pulled athwart the pier’s end. Doors opened. Safia climbed to her feet, swaying a bit as she stared at the top of the hundred-foot masts. The ship’s length was almost twice that.
“The Shabab Oman,” she whispered in awe.
The high-masted clipper ship was the sultan’s pride, the country’s maritime ambassador to the world, a reminder of its nautical history. It had the traditional English design of a square-rigged foremast, the main and aft masts bearing both square and sloop sails. Built in 1971 from Scottish oak and Uruguayan pine, it was the largest vessel of its era in the world that was still seaworthy and in active service. For the past thirty years, it had traveled throughout the world, participating in races and regattas.
Presidents and premiers, kings and queens, had strode its deck. And now it was being lent to Kara for her personal transportation to Salalah. This, more than anything, demonstrated the sultan’s esteem for the Kensington family. Safia now understood why Kara could not refuse.
Safia had to suppress a small bit of glee, surprised by the burbling feeling. Worries of snakes and nagging doubts dimmed. Maybe it was just the drugs, but she preferred to believe it was the fresh salt of the sea breeze, clearing her head and her heart. How long had it been since she’d felt this way?
By now, the other limo had drawn up and parked. The Americans climbed out, all eyes wide on the ship.
Only Omaha seemed unimpressed, having already been informed of the change in transportation. Still, to see the ship in person clearly affected him. Though, of course, he tried to hide it. “Great, this whole expedition is turning into a great big Sinbad movie.”
“When in Rome…” Kara mumbled.
11:48 P.M.
CASSANDRA WATCHED the ship from across the harbor. The Guild had secured this warehouse through contacts with a trafficker in black-market pirated videos. The back half of the rusted structure was stacked with crates of bootlegged DVDs and VHS videos.
The remainder of the warehouse, though, met her requirements. Formerly a mechanics shop, it had its own enclosed dry dock and berth. Water slapped in a continual rhythm against the nearby pilings, disturbed by the wake of a passing trawler heading out to sea.
The motion jostled the group of attack vessels brought in last week. Some had arrived disassembled in crates, then reassembled on-site; others were brought in by sea in the dead of night. Rocking in the berth were three Boston whalers, each tethering a rack of sleek, black Jet Skis, modified by the Guild with swivel-mounted assault rifles. In addition, the dock housed Cassandra’s command boat, a hydrofoil capable of rocketing to speeds in excess of a hundred knots.
Her twelve-man team bustled about with final preparations. They were all ex–Special Forces, like herself, but these hard men had never been recruited by Sigma. Not that they weren’t intelligent enough. Drummed out of the Forces, most had gone into various mercenary and paramilitary groups around the world, learning new skills, growing harder and more cunning. From these men, the Guild had handpicked those with the best adaptability, the keenest intelligence, those who demonstrated the fiercest loyalty to their team, traits even Sigma would have appreciated. Only in the Guild’s case, one criterion was paramount: These men had no qualms about killing, no matter the target.
Her second-in-command approached. “Captain Sanchez, sir.”
She kept her attention on the video feed from the exterior cameras. She counted as Painter’s party climbed aboard the ship and were greeted by Omani officials. Everyone was aboard. She finally straightened. “Yes, Kane.”
John Kane was the only non-American in the group. He had served in the elite Australian SAS, Special Air Services. The Guild did not limit its talent search to U.S. borders, especially as it operated internationally. Standing over six and a half feet, Kane was solidly muscled. He kept his head shaved smooth, except for a patch of black hair under his chin.
The team here was actually Kane’s own men, positioned in the Gulf until called to duty by the Guild. The organization had teams planted throughout the world, independent cells who knew nothing about the others, each ready at a moment’s notice to do the Guild’s bidding.
Cassandra had been sent to activate this particular cell and lead the mission, gaining the assignment because of her knowledge of Sigma Force, the Guild’s adversary on this op. She knew how Sigma operated, their strategies and procedures. She also had intimate knowledge of their op leader—Painter Crowe.
“We’re locked and loaded,” Kane said.
Cassandra nodded, checked her watch. The Shabab Oman was due to disembark at the stroke of midnight. They would wait a full hour, then set off in pursuit. She stared again at the video monitor and calculated in her head.
“The Argus?” she asked.
“Radioed in a few minutes ago. She’s already in position, patrolling our attack zone to ensure no trespassers.”
The Argus was a four-man submersible, capable of off-loading divers without surfacing. Its peroxide-propellant engines and ordnance of mini-torpedoes made it as fast as it was deadly.
Cassandra nodded again. All was in place.
None aboard the Shabab would live to see the dawn.
MIDNIGHT
HENRY STOOD in the center of the bathroom as the draining tub gurgled. His butler’s jacket lay on the bed outside. He rolled up his sleeves and pulled on a pair of yellow rubber gloves.
He sighed. A maid could have easily handled this chore, but the girls were already put off by the commotion, and he felt it his duty to rid the house of the viper’s remains. Ultimately the well-being of the palace’s guests fell upon his shoulders, a duty he felt he had failed in this evening. And though Lady Kensington’s group had departed, he still felt it a personal responsibility to cast the snake out, to correct his mistake.
Stepping forward, he leaned down and gingerly reached for the body. It floated in a lazy S-shape upon the water, even seeming to writhe slightly, bobbled by the tidal pull of the drain.
Henry’s finger hesitated. The bloody thing looked alive.
He squeezed his gloved hand. “Get a grip on yourself, old man.”
Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the snake by the middle. His face clenched in distaste, teeth grinding. “Bloody piece of shite,” he muttered, reverting to the language of his Dublin youth. He cast a silent prayer of thanks to Saint Patrick for driving these buggers out of Ireland.
He dragged the limp form out of the tub. A plastic-lined pail awaited his catch. Turning, holding the snake at arm’s length, he positioned the snake’s tail over the bucket and wound its body down into it, coiling it into place.
As he settled its head atop the pile, he was again amazed at the lifelike appearance of the creature. Only its slack mouth ruined the image.
Henry began to straighten, then cocked his head, seeing something that made no sense. “What’s this, then?”
He turned and collected a plastic comb from the vanity. Gingerly grabbing the snake behind its skull, he used the comb to pry the mouth open farther, confirming what he had noticed.
“How odd,” he mumbled. He probed with the comb to make sure.
The snake had no fangs.