Sandstorm (21 page)

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.

S
AFIA 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.

C
ASSANDRA 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

H
ENRY 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.

DECEMBER 3, 1:02 A.M.
ARABIAN SEA

S
AFIA STOOD
at the rail, staring at the dark coastline as it floated past. The ship creaked and groaned around her. Sails snapped as the winds twisted over the midnight seas.

It was as if they had been transported to another time, when the world was just wind, sand, and water. The smell of the salt and the whisper of waves sliding along the boat’s sides erased the bustle of Muscat. Stars shone above but clouds were blowing in. They would have rain before they reached Salalah.

The ship’s captain had already relayed the weather reports. A squall was raising swells to ten feet. “Nothing the
Shabab
can’t handle,” he had said with a grin, “but it’ll make for a bit of a roll and yaw. Best stick to your cabins when the rains hit.”

So Safia had decided to take advantage of the clear skies while they lasted. After the excitement of the day, she found it too confining in the cabin. Especially now that the sedatives were wearing thin.

She watched the dark coastline glide past, so quiet, so smooth. The last oasis of light, an industrial complex on the very outskirts of Muscat, began to disappear around a spur of land.

A voice spoke behind her, sounding intentionally indifferent. “There goes the last vestige of civilization as we know it.”

Clay Bishop stepped to the rail, gripped it with one hand, and raised a cigarette to his lips. He still wore his Levi’s and a black T-shirt emblazoned with the words
GOT MILK.
For the two years he had served as her
grad student, he never wore anything but T-shirts, usually advertising rock bands in garish colors. The black-and-white one he wore now was clearly his formal wear.

Slightly irritated at the intrusion, she kept her voice stiff and scholarly. “Those lights,” she said, nodding to the fading complex, “mark the city’s most important industrial site. Can you tell me what it is, Mr. Bishop?”

He shrugged, and after a moment’s hesitation, guessed, “An oil refinery?”

It was an answer she expected, but it was also wrong. “No, it’s the desalination facility that produces the city’s freshwater supply.”

“Water?”

“Oil may be the wealth of Arabia, but water is its lifeblood.”

She allowed her student to dwell on this fact. Few in the West knew of the importance of such desalination projects here in Arabia. Water rights and freshwater resources were already replacing oil as the hotbed of contention in the Middle East and North Africa. Some of the fiercest conflicts between Israel and its neighbors—Lebanon, Jordan, and Syria—were not over ideology or religion, but over control of the Jordan Valley’s water supply.

Clay finally spoke up. “Whiskey is for drinkin’, water is for fightin’.”

She frowned.

“Mark Twain,” he said.

Once again, she was surprised by his astute intuitiveness and nodded to him. “Very good.”

Despite his slacker appearance, there was a sharp intelligence behind those thick black glasses. It was one of the reasons she had allowed the young man to join this expedition. He would make a fine researcher one day.

Clay raised his cigarette again. Studying him, she noted the slight waver in its lit end and, for the first time, his white-knuckled grip on the ship’s rail.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Not a big fan of the open sea. If God had meant for man to sail, He wouldn’t have ground the dinosaurs into jet fuel.”

She reached over and patted his hand. “Go to bed, Mr. Bishop.”

The desalination plant finally vanished around the spit of land. All went dark, except for the ship’s lights, reflected in the waters.

Behind Safia, solitary lanterns and strings of electric lights lit the decks, aiding the crew in working lines and rigging, preparing for the rougher seas of the approaching storm. The crew was mostly trainees,
young men from the Royal Navy of Oman, practicing while the ship was home, running short trips up and down the coastline. The
Shabab
was due in another two months to compete in the President’s Cup regatta.

The murmur of the young men was interrupted by a sudden shout from the middle of the deck, a flurry of Arabic cursing. A crash erupted. Safia turned to see a middeck cargo hatch thrown wide, knocking a sailor back. Another man came flying out the open doorway, flinging himself to the side.

The reason for the sailor’s mad flight appeared at his heels, hooves smashing down onto the planks. A white stallion galloped up the hold’s ramp and out onto the deck. Tossing his mane, he stood silvery in the moonlight, his eyes two pieces of smoldering coal. Shouts now echoed all around.

“Jesus!” Clay blurted beside her.

The horse reared up, neighing threateningly, then crashed back, hooves dancing on the planking. It was haltered, but the rope end was frayed.

Men ran in circles, waving arms, trying to corral the stallion back down the hatch. It refused to budge, kicking out with a hoof, butting with its head, or snapping with its teeth.

Safia knew the horse was one of four stalled below—two stallions, two mares—all headed to the royal stud farm outside Salalah. Someone must have been careless in securing the animal.

Fixed at the rail, Safia watched the crew battle the stallion. Someone had freed a length of rope and attempted to lasso the horse. The roper earned himself a broken foot, hopping backward with a sharp cry.

The stallion crashed through a tangle of rigging, ripping bodily through. A line of electric lights struck the deck. Glass bulbs popped and shattered.

New shouts arose.

Finally, a rifle appeared in one of the sailor’s hands.

The stallion’s rampage risked life and damage to the ship.

“
La!
No!”

A flash of bare skin drew Safia’s eye in the other direction. Amid the clothed sailors, a half-naked figure ran from a foredeck door. Wearing only a pair of boxers, Painter stood out like some wild savage. His hair was a mess, as though he had just woken. The cries and crashing of the horse had plainly roused him from his cabin.

He snatched a tarp from atop a coil of rope and sprinted barefoot through the others.
“Wa-ra!”
he shouted in Arabic. “Get back!”

Clearing the ring of sailors, Painter fluttered the tarp. The motion caught the attention of the stallion. It reared up and pounded back down, a threatening, warning stance. But its coal black eyes remained fixed on the tarp and man. A matador and a bull.

“Ye-ahh!” Painter yelled, waving an arm.

The stallion backed a step, lowering its head.

The American swept forward—not straight at the horse, but to its side. He tossed the tarp over the horse’s head, covering it completely.

The stallion bucked once, thrashed its head, but the drape of tarp was too large for the beast to shake free. The horse settled back to the planks and stood still, blinded by the tarp, unsure. It shivered, sweat gleaming in the moonlight.

Painter kept a step away. He spoke too softly for Safia to hear. But she recognized the tone. She’d heard it on the airplane. Simple reassurance.

Finally, he walked cautiously forward and placed a palm on the stallion’s heaving side. The horse nickered and tossed its head, but more gently this time.

Moving closer, Painter patted the stallion’s neck, continuing to murmur. With his other hand, he reached to the frayed rope attached to the halter. Slowly, he guided the stallion around.

Unable to see, the horse responded to the familiar signals, having to trust the man at the end of the rope.

Safia watched him. Painter’s skin gleamed as much as the horse’s flank. He combed a hand through his hair. Was there a tremble in the gesture?

He spoke to one of the sailors, who nodded. The sailor led him down into the hold, horse in tow.

“Very cool,” Clay said approvingly, stamping out his cigarette.

With the excitement over, the crew slowly returned to their duties. Safia stared around her. She noted that most of Kara’s party had gathered on the deck by now: Painter’s partner in a belted robe, Danny in a T-shirt and shorts. Kara and Omaha hadn’t changed their clothes. They must have still been going over last-minute arrangements. At their shoulders stood four tall, hard-looking men dressed in military fatigues. Safia did not recognize them.

From the hatch, Painter returned, rolling the tarp in his hands.

A small cheer rose from the crew. A few palms slapped his back. He winced from the attention and ran a hand again through his hair, a gesture of modesty.

Safia found herself crossing to him. “Well done,” she said as she reached Painter. “If they’d had to shoot the horse—”

“I couldn’t let that happen. It was just spooked.”

Kara appeared, arms crossed over her chest. Her face was unreadable but missing its usual scowl. “That was the sultan’s champion stud. What happened here will reach his ears. You’ve just made yourself a good friend.”

Painter shrugged. “I did it for the welfare of the horse.”

Omaha stood at Kara’s shoulder. His face reddened, plainly irritated. “Where did you learn that horsemanship, Tonto?”

“Omaha…” Safia warned.

Painter ignored the insult. “Claremont Stables in New York City. I cleaned stalls when I was a kid.” The man finally seemed to note his undressed state, staring down at himself. “I should be getting back to my cabin.”

Kara spoke up, stiffly. “Dr. Crowe, before you retire, I’d appreciate your stopping by my cabin. I’d like to go over the itinerary once we reach port.”

His eyes widened in surprise at the offer. “Certainly.”

It was Kara’s first sign of cooperation. Safia was not surprised. She knew of Kara’s deep affection for horses, a tenderness that she felt for no man. Kara had been a champion rider in dressage. Painter’s timely intervention to protect the stallion had won him more than just the sultan’s appreciation.

Painter nodded to Safia, his eyes glinting in the lantern light. She found her breath catching before she could choke out a good-night.

He departed, passing through the four men standing behind Kara. Others slowly followed, dispersing to their respective cabins.

Omaha remained at Safia’s side.

Kara turned and spoke in Arabic to one of the men, a tall black-haired fellow, wearing an Omani
shamag
headcloth and military khakis. Bedouin. All were outfitted similarly. Safia noted the sidearms holstered at their belts. The man bending an ear to Kara also bore a curved dagger tucked into his belt. It was not a ceremonial knife, but a wicked weapon that looked like it had been well used. Clearly he was the leader, distinguished from his men by a pale, ropy scar across this throat. He nodded at whatever Kara said, then spoke to his men. The group marched off.

“Who was that?” Safia asked.

“Captain al-Haffi,” Kara said. “From the Omani military border patrol.”

“Desert Phantoms,” Omaha mumbled, using the border patrol’s nickname.

The Phantoms were the Special Forces of Oman. They waged an ongoing war with smugglers and drug runners in the deep desert, spending
years out in the sands. There were no harder men in all the world. British and American Special Forces teams were taught desert warfare and survival by ex-Phantoms.

Kara spoke. “He and his squad have volunteered as bodyguards for the expedition. With the permission of Sultan Qaboos.”

Safia watched the men head below.

Omaha stretched and yawned. “I’m off to crash for a few hours before sunrise.” He glanced back at Safia. His eyes were hooded under his brows. “You should try to get some sleep. We have a long day ahead of us.”

Safia shrugged, noncommittal. She hated to agree with him on even such a simple suggestion.

His gaze fell from her. For the first time, she noted the passing of years on his face, deeper and longer sun crinkles at the corners of his eyes, a bruising under them. He bore a few more threadlike scars. She could not deny his rugged handsomeness. Sandy blond hair, hard planes to his face, dusky blue eyes. But the boyish charm had faded. He looked tired now, sun-bleached.

Still…something stirred inside her as his eyes fell away, an old ache that was as familiar as it was warm. As he turned away, she caught a hint of his musky scent, a reminder of the man who once lay beside her, snoring in a tent. She had to force herself not to reach out to him, to hold him back a moment longer. But what was the use? They had no words left between them, just uncomfortable silences.

He left.

She turned to find Kara staring at her.

Kara shook her head. “Let the dead rest in peace.”

1:38 A.M.

T
HE VIDEO
monitor displayed the dive team. Cassandra hunched at the screen, as if trying to hear over the whine of the hydrofoil’s engines. The feed came from the team’s submersible, the
Argus,
five miles away and sunk to twenty fathoms.

The
Argus
was designed with two chambers. Aft housed the vessel’s pilot and copilot. The stern chamber, filling now with seawater, held the two assault divers. As the water swamped over the two men, equalizing pressure inside and out, the stern canopy opened like a clamshell. The two divers pushed out into the waters, illuminated by the sub’s lights. Strapped to each of their waists hung maneuvering pulse jets. The
DARPA-engineered devices were capable of propelling the divers to astounding speeds. Slung below them in pocket nets, the pair dragged an arsenal of demolition gear.

Tinny words whispered in her ear. “Sonar contact established on target,” the pilot of the
Argus
reported. “Deploying force team. Estimate contact in seven minutes.”

“Very good,” she answered under her breath. Then sensing someone at her shoulder, she glanced back. It was John Kane. She held up a hand.

“Mine deployment at zero two hundred,” the pilot finished.

“Roger that,” Cassandra said, repeating the time and signing off.

She straightened and turned.

Kane lifted a satellite phone. “Scrambled line. Your ears only.”

Cassandra accepted the phone.
Your ears only.
That could mean one of her superiors. By now, they would have received the report on her failure in Muscat. She had left out the details of the strange bedouin woman who had vanished. Her report had been damning enough. For a second time, she had failed to secure the artifact.