Текст книги "Sandstorm"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

“That is why you’re here,” Cassandra said, snatching up the map and waving for Kane to get the prisoner back into the SUV. “To solve this riddle.”

Safia shook her head. It seemed an impossible task. Or so Safia wanted Cassandra to believe. Despite her protests, she had a distinct idea of how to proceed, but she was unsure how to use this knowledge to her advantage.

She climbed into the back again with Cassandra and settled into her seat as the truck angled through the entry gate. Out in the street, the vendors were beginning to load up their wares as the afternoon waned. A lone stray dog, all ribs and leg bones, wandered listlessly among the strip of stands and carts. It lifted its nose as a horse passed slowly along behind the row of makeshift shops, led by a man draped from head to toe in a bedouin desert cloak.

The truck continued down the lane, aiming for another Mitsubishi parked at the end. The procession would continue into the foothills.

Safia stared at the GPS navigation system on the dashboard. Streets radiated outward. The countryside awaited.

And another tomb.

She hoped it wasn’t her own.

4:42 P.M.

MOUNT EITTEEN

D AMNED SCORPIONS…

Dr. Jacques Bertrand crushed the black-armored intruder under his heel before settling to the rug that cushioned his workspace. He had been gone only minutes to fetch more water from his Land Rover, and the scorpions had already invaded his shaded alcove in the cliff. In this harsh landscape of hardscrabble, bitterbrush, and stone, nothing went to waste. Not even a spot in the shade.

Jacques sprawled on his back in the niche, faceup. An inscription in Epigraphic South Arabian had been carved into the roof of the niche, an ancient burial crypt. The surrounding landscape was littered with them, all overshadowed by Job’s tomb atop the mount where he labored. The entire region had become a cemetery. This was the third crypt he had documented today. The last for this long, interminably hot day.

He already dreamed of his hotel suite at the Salalah Hilton, a dip in the pool, a glass of Chardonnay.

With this thought firming him to his task, he set to work. Running a camel-hair brush over the inscription, he cleaned it a final time. As an archaeologist specializing in ancient languages, Jacques was currently on a grant to road-map early Semitic scripts, tracing their lineage from past to present. Aramaic, Elymaic, Palmyrene, Nabataean, Samaritan, Hebrew. Gravesites were great sources of the written word, immortalizing prayers, praises, and epitaphs.

With a prickly shiver, Jacques lowered his brush. He suddenly had an intense feeling of being watched. It welled over him, some primeval sense of danger.

Raising up on an elbow, he stared down past his legs. The region was rife with bandits and thieves. But in the shadow of Job’s tomb, a most holy shrine, none would venture to commit a crime. It would be a death sentence. Knowing this, he had left his rifle back in the Rover.

He stared out into the brightness.

Nothing.

Still, he pulled his booted feet fully into the niche. If someone was out there, someone meaning him harm, perhaps he could remain hidden.

A tick-tickof a pebble rolling down a rocky slope sounded from the left. His ears strained. He felt trapped.

Then a shape moved across the entrance to the crypt.

It padded past, sauntering, lazy, but confident with power. Its red fur, speckled in shadow, blended with the red rock.

Jacques held his breath, trapped between terror and disbelief.

He had heard tales, been warned of their presence in the wilds of the Dhofar Mountains. Panthera pardus nimr.The Arabian leopard. Nearly extinct, but not extinct enough for his tastes.

The large cat moved past.

But it was not alone.

A second leopard strode into view, moving faster, younger, more agitated. Then a third. A male. Huge paws, splaying with each step, yellow claws.

A pack.

He held his breath, praying, near mindless, a caveman huddling against the dangers beyond his hole.

Then another figure strode into view.

Not a cat.

Bare legs, bare feet, moving with the same feline grace.

A woman.

From his vantage point, he could see nothing above her thighs.

She ignored him as surely as the leopards, moving swiftly past, heading higher up the mountain.

Jacques slipped from the crypt, like Lazarus rising from his grave. He could not stop himself. He poked his head out, on his hands and knees. The woman climbed the rock face, following some path known only to her. She was the color of warm mocha, sleek black hair to the waist, naked, unashamed.

She seemed to sense his gaze, though she did not turn around. He felt it in his head, the overwhelming feeling of being watched again. It bubbled through him. Fear prickled, but he could not look away.

She strode among the leopards, continuing upward, toward the tomb at the top. Her form seemed to shimmer, a heat mirage across sunbaked sand.

A scratching sound drew his glance to his hands and knees.

A pair of scorpions scuttled over his fingers. They were not poisonous but dealt a wicked sting. He gasped as more and more boiled out of cracks and crevices, scrabbling down walls, dropping from the roof. Hundreds. A nest. He scrambled from the crypt. He felt stings, sparks of fire on his back, ankles, neck, hands.

He fell out of the opening and rolled across the hard soil. More stings flashed like cigarette burns. He cried out, maddened with pain.

He clambered up, shaking his limbs, stripping his jacket, slapping a hand through his hair. He stamped his feet and stumbled back down the slope. Scorpions still scuttled about the crypt’s opening.

He glanced higher, suddenly fearful of drawing the leopards’ attention. But the cliff face was empty.

The woman, the cats, had vanished.

It was impossible. But the fire from the scorpion stings had burned all curiosity from him. He fell back and away, retreating for his parked Rover. Still, his eyes quested, moving higher, to the top.

To where the tomb of Job waited.

He pulled open the door to his Rover and climbed into the driver’s seat. He had been warned away. He knew it with dread certainty.

Something horrible was going to happen up there.

4:45 P.M.

SALALAH

SAFIA’S STILLalive,” Painter said as soon as he strode through the door of the safe house It was not so much a house as a two-room flat above an import-export shop that bordered the Al-Haffa souk. With such a business fronting the safe house, none would question the comings and goings of strangers. Just a normal part of business. The noise of the neighboring market was a chatter of languages, voices, and bartering. The rooms smelled of curry and old mattresses.

Painter pushed past Coral, who had opened the door upon his knock. He had already noted the two Desert Phantoms posted discreetly out front, watching the approach up to the safe house.

The others were gathered in the front room, exhausted, road-worn. A run of water tinkled from the neighboring bathroom. Painter noted Kara was missing. Danny, Omaha, and Clay all had wet hair. They had been taking turns showering away the trail dust and grime. Captain al-Haffi had found a robe, but it was too tight for his shoulders.

Omaha stood as Painter entered. “Where is she?”

“Safia and the others were leaving the tomb just as I arrived. In a caravan of SUVs. Heavily armed.” Painter crossed to the tiny kitchenette. He leaned over the sink, turned the tap, and ran his head under the spigot.

Omaha stood behind him. “Then why aren’t you tracking them?”

Painter straightened, sweeping back his sodden hair. Trails of water coursed down his neck and back. “I am.” He kept his eyes hard upon Omaha, then stepped past him to Coral. “How are we equipped?”

She nodded to the door leading to the back room. “I thought it best to wait for you. The electronic keypad proved trickier than I had imagined.”

“Show me.”

She led him to the door. The flat was a CIA safe house, permanently stocked, one of many throughout the world. Sigma had been alerted to its location when the mission was assembled. Backup in case it was needed.

It was.

Painter spotted the electronic keypad hidden under a fold of curtain. Coral had pinned the drape out of the way. A small array of crude tools lay on the floor: fingernail clipper, razor blades, tweezers, nail file.

“From the bathroom,” Coral said.

Painter knelt in front of the keypad. Coral had opened the casing, exposing the electronics. He studied the circuits.

Coral leaned beside him, pointing to some clipped wires, red and blue. “I was able to disable the silent alarm. You should be able to key into the equipment locker without alerting anyone. But I thought it best you oversee my work. This is your field of expertise.”

Painter nodded. Such lockers were rigged to silently send out an alarm, notifying the CIA when such a safe house was employed. Painter did not want such knowledge sent out. Not yet. Not so broadly. They were dead…and he meant to keep them that way for as long as possible.

His eyes ran along the circuits, following the flows of power, the dummy wires, the live ones. All seemed in order. Coral had managed to sever the power to the telephone line while leaving the keypad powered and untampered with. For a physicist, she was proving to be a damn good electrical engineer. “Looks good.”

“Then we can enter.”

During his premission briefing, Painter had memorized the safe house’s code. He reached to the keypad and typed in the first number of the ten-digit code. He would have only one chance to get it right. If he entered the code wrong, the keypad would disable itself, locking down. A failsafe.

He proceeded carefully.

“You have ninety seconds,” Coral reminded him.

Another failsafe. The ten-digit sequence had to be punched in within a set time span. He tapped each number with care, proceeding steadily. As he reached the seventh number in the sequence-the number nine-his finger hovered. The illuminated button seemed slightly dimmer than its neighbor, easy to miss. He held his finger. Was he being too paranoid? Jumping at shadows?

“What’s wrong?” Coral asked.

By now, Omaha had joined them, along with his brother.

Painter sat back on his heels, thinking. He clenched and unclenched his fingers. He stared at the number-nine button. Surely not…

“Painter,” Coral whispered under her breath.

If he waited much longer, the system would lock down. He didn’t have time to spare-but something was wrong. He could smell it.

Omaha hovered behind him, making him too conscious of the time ticking away. If Painter was to save Safia, he needed what lay behind this door.

Ignoring the keypad, Painter picked up the tweezer and nail file. With a surgeon’s skill, he carefully lifted free the number-nine key. It fell into his hand. Too easily. He leaned closer, squinting.

Damn…

Behind the key rested a small square chip with a pressure plunger in its center. The chip was wrapped tightly with a thin metal filament. An antenna. It was a microtransmitter. If he had pressed the button, it would have activated. From the crudeness of its integration, this was not a factory installation.

Cassandra had been here.

Sweat rolled into Painter’s left eye. He had not even been aware of the amount of moisture that had built up on his brow.

Coral stared over his shoulder. “Shit.”

That was an understatement. “Get everyone out of here.”

“What’s going on?” Omaha asked.

“Booby trap,” Painter said, anger firing his words. “Out! Now!”

“Grab Kara!” Coral commanded Omaha, ordering him into the bathroom. She got everyone else moving toward the door.

As they fled, Painter sat before the keypad. A litany of curses rang through his head like a favorite old song. He had been singing this tune too long. Cassandra was always a step ahead.

“Thirty seconds!” Coral warned as she slammed the flat’s door. He had half a minute until the keypad locked down.

Alone, he studied the chip.

Just you and me, Cassandra.

Painter set down the nail file and picked up the nail clipper. Wishing he had his tool satchel, he set to work on removing the transmitter, breathing deeply, staying in a calm place. He touched the metal casing to bleed away any static electricity, then set to work. He carefully dissected away the power wire from its ground, then just as carefully filed the plastic coating off the power wire without breaking it. Once the ground wire was exposed, he tweezed it up and touched it to the hot wire. There was a snap and a sizzle. A hint of burned plastic wafted upward.

The transmitter was fried.

Eight seconds…

He cut the dead transmitter free and plucked it out. He closed his fingers over it, feeling its sharp edge dig into his palm.

Fuck you, Cassandra.

Painter finished tapping in the final three digits. Beside him, the door’s locks tumbled open with a whir of mechanics.

Only then did he sigh in relief.

Straightening, he inspected the door’s frame before testing the knob. It all looked untouched. Cassandra had counted on the transmitter doing the job.

Painter twisted and pulled the knob. The door was heavy, reinforced with steel. He said a quick final prayer as he hauled the door open.

From the doorway, he stared inside. A bare bulb illuminated the room.

Damn it…

The neighboring room was filled with steel shelves and racks, from floor to ceiling. All empty. Ransacked.

Again, Cassandra had taken no chances, left no crumbs, only her calling card: a pound of C4 explosive, rigged with an electronic detonator. If he had tapped the number-nine button, it would have taken out the entire building. He crossed and pulled free the detonator.

Frustration built into a painful pressure behind his rib cage. He wanted to scream. Instead, he crossed back to the flat’s entry door and called the all clear.

Coral’s eyes were bright as she climbed the stairs

“She cleaned us out,” Painter said as his partner entered.

Omaha frowned, following on Coral’s heels. “Who…?”

“Cassandra Sanchez,” Painter snapped. “Safia’s kidnappers.”

“How the hell did she know about the safe house?”

Painter shook his head. How indeed? He led them to the empty locker, stepped inside, and crossed to the bomb.

“What are you doing?” Omaha asked.

“I’m salvaging the explosives. We may need them.”

As Painter worked, Omaha entered the locker. Kara followed, her hair wet and tangled from her interrupted shower, her body snugged in a towel.

“What about Safia?” Omaha asked. “You said you could track her.”

Painter finished freeing the C4 and motioned them all back out. “I did. Now we have a problem. There should’ve been a satellite-linked computer here. A way to reach a DOD server.”

“I don’t understand,” Kara said thinly. Her flesh shone pale yellow under the fluorescents. She appeared wasted, leaving Painter to suspect it wasn’t drugs that had worn the woman down, but the lackof them.

Painter led them back into the main room, revising his plans with one step, cursing Cassandra with the next. She knew about the safe house, obtained the locker code, and booby-trapped it. How did she know their every move? His gaze traveled over the group here.

“Where’s Clay?” Painter asked.

“Finishing a cigarette on the stairs,” Danny answered. “He found a pack in the kitchen.”

As if on command, Clay pushed through the door. All eyes turned to him. He was taken aback by all the attention. “What?” he asked.

Kara turned to Painter. “What’s our next step?”

Painter turned to Captain al-Haffi. “I left the sultan’s horse with Sharif downstairs. Do you think you could sell the stallion and quickly roust up some weapons and a vehicle that could carry us?”

The captain nodded with assurance. “I have discreet contacts here.”

“You have half an hour.”

“What about Safia?” Omaha pressed. “We’re wasting too much time.”

“Safia is safe for the moment. Cassandra still needs her, or Safia would be sharing that tomb with the Virgin Mary’s father right now. They took her away for a reason. If we hope to rescue her, the cover of night might be best. We have some time to spare.”

“How do you know where they’re taking Safia?” Kara asked.

Painter searched the faces around him, unsure how freely to speak.

“Well?” Omaha pressed. “How the hell are we going to find her?”

Painter crossed toward the door. “By finding the best coffee in town.”

5:10 P.M.

OMAHA LEDthe way across the Al-Haffa souk. Only Painter followed. The others were left at the safe house to rest and await the return of Captain al-Haffi and their transportation. Omaha hoped they had someplace to travel to.

Dull anger throbbed with each step. Painter had seen Safia, been within yards of her…and he had let the kidnappers ride off with her. The man’s confidence in his ability to track her had been shaken back at the safe house. Omaha saw it in Painter’s eyes. Worry.

The bastard should’ve attempted to rescue her when he had the chance. To hell with the odds. The man’s insufferable caution was going to get Safia killed. And then all their efforts would be too late.

Omaha stalked among the booths and stalls of the market, deaf to the chatter of voices, the cries of hawkers, the angry burble of heated bartering, the squawk of caged geese, the braying of a mule. It all blended into white noise.

The market was near to closing for the day as the sun sank toward the horizon, stretching shadows. An evening wind had kicked up. Awnings rattled, dust devils danced amid piles of littered refuse, and the air smelled of salt, spice, and the promise of rain.

It was past monsoon season, but the weather reports warned of a December storm, a front moving inland. They would have rain by nightfall. The squall last night had been only the first in a series of storms. There was talk that this weather system would cross the mountains and collide with the sandstorm rolling south, creating the perfect monster storm.

But Omaha had larger concerns than wild weather.

Omaha hurried across the souk. Their goal lay on the far side, where a modern strip of commercial facilities had sprouted, including a Pizza Hut and a minimart. Omaha wound through the last of the stalls, passing shops selling knockoff perfumes, incense burners, bananas, tobacco, handcrafted jewelry, traditional Dhofari dresses made of velvet and covered with beads and sequins.

At last, they reached the street separating the souk from the modern strip mall. Omaha pointed across the way. “There it is. Now how is that place going to help you find Safia?”

Painter headed across. “I’ll show you.”

Omaha followed. He stared up at the sign:SALALAH INTERNET CAFй The establishment specialized in elaborate coffees, offering an international array of teas, cappuccinos, and espressos. Similar establishments could be found in the most remote places. All it took was a telephone connection, and even the most out-of-the-way corner of the world could be surfing the Web.

Painter headed inside. He approached the counterperson, a blond-haired Englishman by the name of Axe who wore a T-shirt that readFREE WINONA and gave him his credit card number and expiration date.

“You have that memorized,” Omaha asked.

“You never know when you’re going to be attacked by pirates at sea.”

As the man ran the number, Omaha asked, “I thought you wanted to keep a low profile. Won’t using your credit card give away that you’re still alive?”

“I don’t think it really matters anymore.”

The electronic credit card machine chimed. The man gave him a thumbs-up. “How much time do you want?”

“Is it a highspeed connection?”

“DSL, mate. No other way to surf.”

“Thirty minutes should be enough.”

“Brilliant. Machine in the corner is free.”

Painter led Omaha over to the computer, a Gateway Pentium 4. Painter sat down, accessed the Internet connection, and typed in a long IP address.

“I’m accessing a Department of Defense’s server,” he explained.

“How is that going to help find Safia?”

He continued typing, fingers flying, screens flashed, refreshed, disappeared, changed. “Through the DOD, I can gain access to most proprietary systems under the National Security Act. Here we go.”

On the screen appeared a page with the Mitsubishi logo.

Omaha read over his shoulder. “Shopping for a new car?”

Painter used the mouse to maneuver through the site. He seemed to have full access, flashing past password-encrypted screens. “Cassandra’s group was traveling in SUVs. Mitsubishis. They did not make much effort to hide their backup vehicles. It didn’t take much to get close enough to read the VIN number off one in the alley.”

“VIN? The Vehicle Identification Number?”

Painter nodded. “All cars or trucks with GPS navigation systems are in constant contact with the orbiting satellites, keeping track of their location, allowing the driver to know where he is at all times.”

Omaha began to understand. “And if you have the VIN number, you can access the vehicle’s data remotely. Find out where they are.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

A screen appeared, asking for the VIN number. Painter typed it in, not looking at his fingers. He pressed the enter button, then leaned back. His hand had a slight shake in it. He clenched a fist in an attempt to hide it.

Omaha could read his mind. Had he remembered the number correctly? What if the kidnappers had disabled the GPS? So many things could go wrong.

But after a long moment, a digital map of Oman appeared, fed from a pair of geosynchronous satellites orbiting far above. A small box scrolled a series of longitude and latitude designation. The moving location of the SUV.

Painter sighed with relief. Omaha echoed it.

“If we could find where they were holding Safia…”

Painter clicked the zoom feature and zeroed in on the map. The city of Salalah appeared. But the tiny blue arrow marking the truck’s location was beyond its borders, heading deeper inland.

Painter leaned closer. “No…”

“Goddamnit. They’re leaving the city!”

“They must’ve found something at that tomb.”

Omaha swung away. “Then we have to go. Now!”

“We don’t know wherethey’re going,” Painter said, remaining at the computer. “I have to track them. Until they stop.”

“There is only one highway. The one they’re on. We can catch up.”

“We don’t know if they’ll go overland. They were in four-wheel-drives.”

Omaha felt pulled in two different directions: to listen to Painter’s practical advice, or to steal the first vehicle he could find and race after Safia. But what would he do if he reached her? How could he help her?

Painter grabbed his arm. Omaha balled a fist with the other.

Painter stared hard at him. “I need you to think, Dr. Dunn. Why would they be leaving the city? Where could they be going?”

“How the hell should-”

Painter squeezed his arm. “You’re as much an expert in this region as Safia. You know what road they’re taking, what lies along the way. Is there anything out there that the tomb here in Salalah might point toward?”

He shook his head, refusing to answer. They were wasting time.

“Goddamnit, Omaha! For once in your life, stop reacting and think!”

Omaha yanked his arm away. “Fuck you!” But he didn’t leave. He remained trembling in place.

“What is out there? Where are they going?”

Omaha glanced over to the screen, unable to face Painter, afraid he’d blacken the man’s other eye. He considered the question, the puzzle. He stared at the blue arrow as it wound away from town, up into the foothills.

What had Safia discovered? Where were they headed?

He ran through all the archaeological possibilities, all the sites peppered across the ancient land: shrines, cemeteries, ruins, caves, sinkholes. There were too many. Turn over any stone here and you discover a piece of history.

But then he had an idea. There was a major tomb near that highway, just a few miles off the road.

Omaha moved back to the computer. He watched the blue arrow coursing along the road. “There’s a turnoff about fifteen miles up the highway. If they take that turn, I know where they’re headed.”

“That’ll mean waiting a bit more,” Painter said.

Omaha crouched by the computer. “It seems we have no choice.”

5:32 P.M.

PAINTER BOUGHTtime on another computer. He left Omaha to monitor the SUV’s progress. If they could get a lead on where Cassandra was headed with Safia, they could get a head start. It was a slim hope.

Alone with his computer, Painter again accessed the DOD server. There was no reason to feign death any longer. He’d left enough of an electronic trail. Besides, considering the elaborate trap at the safe house, Cassandra knew he was alive…or at least, she was acting that way.

That was one of the reasons he needed to log back onto the DOD site.

He entered his private pass code and accessed his mail system. He typed in the address for his superior, Dr. Sean McKnight, head of Sigma. If there was anyone he trusted, it was Sean. He needed to apprise his commander of the events, let him know the status of the operation.

An e-mail window opened, and he typed rapidly, relating a thumbnail sketch of events. He stressed the role of Cassandra, the possibility of a mole in the organization. There was no way Cassandra could have known about the safe house, the electronic code for the equipment locker, without some inside information.

He finished:

I cannot stress enough that matters at your end must be investigated. Success of this mission will depend on cutting off further flow of intelligence. Trust no one. We will attempt to rescue Dr. alMaaz this evening. We believe we know where Cassandra’s group is taking the doctor. It appears they are headed to

Painter paused, took a deep breath, then continued typing:

the Yemeni border. We are headed there right now in an attempt to stop the border crossing.

Painter stared at the letter. Numb at the possibility.

Omaha waved to him from the neighboring computer. “They made the turnoff on the side road!”

Painter hit the send button. The letter vanished, but not his guilt.

“C’mon.” Omaha crossed to the exit. “We can close the distance.”

Painter followed. At the door, he gave one final glance back to his workstation. He prayed he was wrong.

13

Footprints of the Prophet

DECEMBER 3, 5:55 P.M.

DHOFAR MOUNTAINS

SAFIA STAREDout the window as the truck wound up a switchback through the mountainous hills. After they left the highway, asphalt had given way to gravel, which in turn disintegrated into a rutted red dirt path. They proceeded slowly, cautious of the deep gorge that shouldered the road to the left.

Below, the valley flowed away in deepening shades of lush green, disappearing into shadows near the bottom as the sun set to the west. A scatter of baobab trees dotted the slope, monstrous trees with tangled, rooted trunks that seemed more prehistoric than specimens of the modern world. Everywhere the land rolled in shades of emerald, striped in shadows. A waterfall glistened between two distant hills, its cataracts sparkling in the last rays of the sun.

If Safia squinted, she could almost imagine she was back in England.

All the lushness of the high country was due to the annual monsoon winds, the khareef,that swept the foothills and mountains in a continual misty drizzle from June through September. Even now, as the sun set, a steady wind had begun to blow, buffeting the truck. The sky overhead had darkened to slate gray, canopied with frothy clouds that brushed the higher hills.

The radio had been tuned to a local news channel during the ride up here. Cassandra had been listening for reports on the ongoing salvage operation on the Shabab Oman.Still, no survivors had been found, and the seas were again kicking up with the approach of a new storm system. But what dominated the weather reports was news of the fierce sandstorm continuing its sweep south across Saudi Arabia, heading like a freight train for the desert of Oman, leaving a swath of destruction.

The wild weather matched Safia’s mood: dark, threatening, unpredictable. She felt a force building inside her, below her breastbone, a tempest in a bottle. She remained tense, tingling. It reminded her of an impending anxiety attack, but now there was no fear, only determined certainty. She had nothing, so could lose nothing. She remembered her years in London. It had been the same. She had sought comfort by becoming nothing, cutting herself off, isolating herself. But now she had truly succeeded. She was empty, left with only one purpose: to stop Cassandra. And that was enough.

Cassandra remained lost in her own thoughts, only occasionally leaning forward to speak in hushed tones to John Kane up front. Her cell phone had rung a few minutes ago. She had answered it tersely, turning slightly away, speaking in a whisper. Safia heard Painter’s name. She had tried to eavesdrop, but the woman kept her voice too low, blocked by the babble of the radio. Then she had hung up, made two other calls, and sunk into a palpably tense silence. Anger seemed to radiate in waves from the woman.

Since then, Safia kept her attention on the countryside, searching for places where she might hide, mapping the terrain in her head, just in case.

After another ten minutes of slow trekking, a larger hill appeared, its top still bathed in light. The golden bell of a short tower glinted in the sun.

Safia straightened. Job’s tomb.

“Is that the place?” Cassandra stirred, eyes still narrowed.

Safia nodded, sensing that now was not the time to provoke her captor.

The SUV coasted down a final slope, circled the base of the mount, and then began a long climb toward the top, crawling up a switchback. A group of camels lounged beside the road as their vehicle neared the hilltop tomb. The beasts were all couched for a rest, kneeling down atop their knobby knees. A few men sat in the shadow of a baobab, tribesmen from the hills. The eyes of both camels and men followed the passage of the three trucks.

After a last switchback, the walled tomb complex appeared, consisting of a small beige building, a tiny whitewashed mosque, and a handsome garden courtyard of native shrubs and flowers. Parking was merely an open stretch of dirt in front, presently empty because of the lateness of the day.

As before, Kane settled the truck to a stop, then came around to open Safia’s door. She climbed out, stretching a kink from her neck. Cassandra joined them as the other two SUVs parked and the men unloaded. They were all dressed in civilian clothes: khakis and Levi’s, short-sleeved shirts, polos. But all the men wore matching windbreakers with the logo for Sunseeker Tours, all a size too big, hiding their holstered weapons. They quickly dispersed into a loose cordon near the road, feigning interest in the gardens or walls. A pair had binoculars and scanned the immediate area, turning in a slow circle.