SANDSTORM sf-1

by James Rollins

  She lunged at the door, arms out, shoving the emergency latch.

  It stuck. Locked.

  She slammed into the steel door with a sob. No…

  Painter held up his hands, the Walther P38 on the floor at his feet. He had come close to being shot in the head. The bullet had whizzed past his cheek, near enough for him to feel the burn of its passage. Only a quick dodge and roll had saved him.

  But then again, he could imagine how it looked. Him kneeling beside Ryan Fleming’s body at the exit door, gun in hand. A trio of security men had come upon the scene, and all chaos had broken out. It had taken him a moment of frantic negotiating to reach this standoff-dropping his gun, hands in the air.

  “Dr. al-Maaz was attacked,” he called over to the guard with the gun. Another checked the body, while the third was on a radio. “Mr. Fleming was shot when she was kidnapped. My partner and I were able to subdue the attackers upstairs.”

  There was no note of reaction from the armed guard. He could just as well have been deaf. He simply pointed his pistol. Sweat beaded the man’s forehead.

  The guard by the radio turned and spoke to his mates. “We’re to secure him in the nest until the police arrive. They’re on their way.”

  Painter glanced to the stairwell. Concern jangled through him. The shot must have been heard upstairs. Had it sent Coral and the curator into hiding?

  “Oi, you,” the guard with the pistol said. “Hands on your head. Move along this way.”

  The guard waved the gun down the hall, away from the stairwell. It was the only firearm among the three, and its bearer seemed poorly acquainted with the weapon. He held it too loosely, too low. Probably the only gun here, one rarely pulled out of mothball storage. But the recent explosion had made everyone jumpy, overly alert.

  Painter laced his fingers atop his head and turned where indicated. He had to reestablish control here. With his hands in plain view, he swung around, stepping closer to the inexperienced guard. As he turned, he shifted his weight on his right leg. The guard’s eyes flicked away for a half second. Plenty of time. Painter snap-kicked out with his left foot, striking the guard’s wrist.

  The gun went skittering down the hall.

  Sweeping down, Painter snatched the abandoned Walther from the floor and leveled it at the stunned trio. “Now we’re doing things my way.”

  Desperate, Safia shoved the emergency latch to the roof door again. It refused to budge. She pounded a fist weakly against the jamb. Then she spotted a security keypad in the wall beside it. An old one. Not an electronic card scanner. It needed a code. Panic whined like a mosquito in her ear.

  Each employee was assigned a default code. They could change it at their leisure. The default code was each employee’s birth date. She had never bothered to change hers.

  A scuff of heel drew her attention around.

  Her pursuer came around the lower flight, standing on the landing. The two eyed each other. The gunman now had a pistol in his grip. Not a tazer.

  With her back to the door, Safia fingered the keypad’s buttons and punched in her birth date blindly. After years at the museum, she was accustomed to touch-typing entries into an accounting calculator.

  Once done, she pushed the emergency latch.

  It clicked but failed to budge. Still locked.

  “Dead end,” the gunman said, his voice muffled. “Come down or die.”

  Pinned against the door, Safia realized her mistake. The security grid had been upgraded after the millennium. A year was no longer defined by two digits, but four. Unclenching her fingers, she rapidly typed in the eight numbers: two for day, two for month, and four for her birth year.

  The gunman took a step toward her, pistol stretching closer.

  Safia rammed her back into the emergency latch. The door flung open. Cold air whipped over her as she tumbled out and darted to the side. A shot ricocheted off the steel door. Driven by desperation, she swung the door shut, slamming it into the masked face of the gunman as he lunged.

  She didn’t wait, unsure if the door would relock, and fled around the corner of the rooftop exit hut. The night was too bright. Where was London’s fog when you needed it? She searched for a place to hide.

  Small metal outcroppings offered some shelter: hooded vents, exhaust flumes, electrical conduits. But they were isolated and offered scant protection. The remainder of the roof of the British Museum looked like the parapet of a castle, surrounding a glass-roofed central courtyard.

  A muffled shot blasted behind her. A door slammed open with a crash.

  Her pursuer had broken through.

  Safia sprinted for the closest cover. A low wall lipped the central courtyard, outlining the edges of the Grand Court’s glass-and-steel roof. She climbed over the parapet and ducked down.

  Her feet rested on the metal rim of the two-acre geodesic roof. It spread out from her position in a vast plain of glass, broken into individual triangular panes. A few were missing, knocked loose by the blast last night and patched with plastic sheeting. The remaining panes shone like mirrors in the starlight, all pointing toward the middle, to where the bright copper dome of the central Reading Room rose from the middle of the courtyard, like an island in a sea of safety glass.

  Safia remained crouched, realizing how exposed she was.

  If the gunman searched over the wall, there was nowhere to run.

  Footsteps sounded, crunching on the graveled roof. They circled around for a few moments, stopped for a long breath, then continued. Eventually they would head here.

  Safia had no choice. She crawled out onto the roof, scuttling like a crab across the panes of glass, praying they would hold her weight. The forty-foot fall to the hard marble below would prove just as deadly as a slug in the head.

  If she could only make it to the domed island of the Reading Room, get behind it…

  One of the panes splintered under her knee like brittle ice. It must have been stressed by the blast. She rolled to the side as it gave way beneath her, cracking and falling through its steel frame. A moment later, a loud ringing crash echoed up as the pane struck marble.

  Safia crouched only halfway across the vast roof, a fly stuck on a mirrored web. And the spider was surely coming, drawn by the crash.

  She needed to hide, a hole to crawl into.

  Safia glanced to the right. There was only one hole.

  She rolled back to the empty steel frame, and without much more thought than hide, she swung her legs down through the frame, then wiggled on her belly. As her fingers grabbed the steel edge, she let herself drop, hanging now by her hands over the forty-foot fall.

  She swung in place, facing back toward her initial hiding place by the wall. Through the glass, the starlit night was clear and bright. She watched a masked head peer over the low wall, searching the geodesic roof.

  Safia held her breath. Viewed from outside, the roof was mirrored by the silvery starlight. She should be invisible. But already her arm muscles cramped, and the sharp steel cut into her fingers. And she would still need some strength to pull herself back up.

  She searched down to the dark courtyard. A mistake. She was so high. The only light came from a handful of red-glowing security lamps near the wall. Still, she spotted the shattered pane of glass under her feet. The same would happen to her bones if she fell. Her fingers gripped tighter, her heart pounded harder.

  She tore her gaze from the drop, glancing back up in time to see the gunman climbing over the wall. What was he doing? Once over the wall, he started across the roof, keeping his weight mostly on the steel-framed structure. He was coming straight at her. How did he know?

  Then it dawned on her. She had noted the plastic-sheeted gaps in the roof. They were like missing teeth in a bright smile. There was only one such gap that was still uncapped. The gunman must have guessed that his target had fallen through and come to make certain. He moved swiftly, so unlike her own panicked crawl. He swept down on her hiding spot, pistol in hand.

  What
could she do? There was nowhere else to run. She considered simply letting go. At least, she’d have control over her death. Tears rose in her eyes. Her fingers ached. All she had to do was let go. But her fingers refused to unlatch. Panic held her clenched. She hung there as the man crossed the final pane.

  Finally spotting her, he started back a step, then stared down at her.

  Laughter flowed, low and dark.

  In that moment, Safia realized her mistake.

  A gun pointed at Safia’s forehead. “Tell me the combination-”

  The crack of a pistol erupted. Glass shattered.

  Safia screamed, losing the grip on one hand, hanging by the other. Her shoulder and fingers wrenched. Only then did she spot the shooter on the floor below. A familiar figure. The American.

  He stood with his feet planted wide on the marble, aiming up at her.

  She turned her face upward.

  The pane of glass her attacker had been standing on had crackled into a thousand pieces, held together only by the safety coating. The thief stumbled backward, fumbling and losing the pistol. It flew high, then landed hard upon the shattered pane. The weapon fell through the broken glass and tumbled all the way to the floor below.

  The thief sprinted across the roof, fleeing, aiming back toward the wall.

  Below, the American fired and fired, blasting out panes of glass, following from below. But the thief was always a step ahead. Finally reaching the wall, the figure vanished over it. Gone.

  The American swore loudly. He hurried back to where Safia hung by one arm, like a bat in the rafters. But she had no wings.

  Safia struggled to get her other hand up on the support. She had to swing slightly, but finally her fingers gripped steel.

  “Can you hold on?” he asked below her, concerned.

  “I don’t seem to have much choice,” she called down hotly. “Now do I?”

  “If you swing your legs,” he offered, “you might be able to hook them over the next frame.”

  She saw what he meant. He had shot out the neighboring pane, leaving an open support bar between them. She took a deep breath-then with a small cry of effort, she swung her legs, tucked her knees, and hooked them over the bar.

  Immediately, the ache in her hands lessened as the weight eased. She had to force herself not to cry with relief.

  “Security’s already heading up there.”

  Safia craned down to the American. She found herself speaking to keep herself from wailing. “Your partner…is she…?”

  “Fine. Took a jolt, ruined a nice blouse, but she’ll be up and around.”

  She closed her eyes with relief. Thank God… She couldn’t have handled another death. Not after Ryan. She took several more breaths.

  “Are you all right?” the American asked, staring up at her.

  “Yes. But, Dr. Crowe-”

  “Call me Painter…I think we’ve passed formalities here.”

  “It seems I owe you my life for the second time this night.”

  “That’s what you get for hanging around with me.” Though she couldn’t see it, she could imagine his wry smile.

  “That’s not very funny.”

  “It will be later.” He crossed and recovered the thief’s gun from the floor.

  That reminded Safia. “The one you were shooting at. It was a woman. ”

  He continued his study of the weapon. “I know…”

  Painter inspected the weapon in his hand. It was a Sig Sauer, 45mm, with a Hogue rubberized grip. It couldn’t be… He held his breath as he turned the weapon on its side. The thumb catch for the magazine release was on the right side. A custom feature for that rare left-handed shooter.

  He knew this gun. He knew the shooter.

  He stared up at the path of shattered glass.

  Cassandra.

  Part Two

  Sand and Sea

  6

  Homecoming

  DECEMBER 2, 06:42 A.M.

  HEATHROW INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  KARA METhim at the foot of the steps leading up to the open door of the Learjet. She stood, blocking the way and pointing a stiff finger at the focus of her anger.

  Her voice sharpened. “I want it stated clearly, Dr. Crowe, that you have no authority once you board this jet. You may have wrangled your way into this expedition, but it certainly wasn’t by my invitation.”

  “I got that from the warm reception your pack of corporate lawyers gave me,” the American answered, hitching his duffel higher on his shoulder. “Who would’ve guessed so many suits could put up such a determined fight?”

  “Little good it did. You’re still here.”

  He offered a crooked smile as response, then shrugged.

  As before, he offered no explanation as to why the U.S. government wanted him and his partner to accompany the expedition into Oman. But insurmountable blocks had appeared: financial, legal, even diplomatic. All this was further complicated by the media circus surrounding the attempted theft.

  Kara had always considered her influence to be significant-but it paled beside the pressure placed upon the expedition by Washington. The United States had significant interests in Oman. She’d spent three weeks trying to find a way around their roadblocks, but the trip was hung up unless she cooperated.

  Still, that didn’t mean she hadn’t won concessions.

  “From here on out,” she said firmly, “you will be under our leadership.”

  “Understood.”

  The single word irritated Kara further. With no choice, she stepped aside.

  He stood his ground on the tarmac. “It doesn’t have to be this way. We aren’t at cross-purposes here, Lady Kensington. We both seek the same thing.”

  She pinched her brows. “And what might that be?”

  “Answers…answers to mysteries.” He stared at her with those piercing blue eyes, unreadable, yet not cold. For the first time, she noted how handsome he was. Not model handsome, more a weary masculinity that he carried easily. He wore his hair lanky, a five-o’clock shadow at six in the morning. She could smell his aftershave, musky with a trace of balsam. Or was that just him?

  Kara kept her face fixed, her voice flatlined. “And what mystery are you seeking to answer, Dr. Crowe?”

  He did not blink. “I might ask the same of you, Lady Kensington. What mystery do you seek? It’s surely something more than academic interest in old tombs.”

  Kara’s frown deepened, eyes flashing. Presidents of multinational corporations withered under such inspection. Painter Crowe remained unfazed.

  He finally stepped forward and mounted the Lear’s stairs-but not before adding one last cryptic comment. “It seems we both have secrets we wish to keep…at least for now.”

  She watched him climb.

  Painter Crowe was followed by his companion: Dr. Coral Novak. She was tall, firmly toned, wearing a snug gray suit. She carried a matching duffel of personal items. The scientists’ trunks and equipment had already been loaded. The woman’s eyes searched down the length of the jet, studious.

  Kara’s frown tracked them as they disappeared inside. Though they claimed to be merely physicists contracted by the U.S. government, she recognized the stamp of the military all over them: the wiry athleticism, the hard eyes, the sharp creases in their suits. They moved together, in unison, casually, one on point, the other watching their backs. They probably weren’t even aware of it.

  And then there was the battle in the museum to consider. Kara had heard the detailed report: the murder of Ryan Fleming, the attempted theft of the iron heart. If not for this pair’s intervention, all would have been lost. Despite Dr. Crowe’s clear dissembling, Kara owed him-and for more than just the security of the artifact. She stared across the tarmac as the terminal door swung open.

  Safia hurried toward the Lear, dragging a piece of luggage behind her. If the two Americans hadn’t been present in the museum, Safia surely would not have survived.

  Still, her friend had not passed the night uns
cathed. The terror, the bloodshed, the death had broken something in Safia. Her protests against joining the expedition had ended. Safia seemed reticent to talk about her change of mind. Her only explanation was a terse response: It no longer matters.

  Safia crossed to the jet. “Am I the last one here?”

  “Everyone’s aboard.” Kara reached toward her luggage.

  Safia snapped down the tote’s handle and lifted it herself. “I have it.”

  Kara didn’t argue. She knew what the luggage contained. The iron heart, nestled in a molded, rubberized cocoon. Safia refused to let anyone near it-not to protect it, but as if it was a burden she must bear. Its blood debt was hers alone. Her discovery, her responsibility.

  Guilt shadowed her friend like a mourning shroud. Ryan Fleming had been her friend. Murdered before her eyes. All for a chunk of iron, something Safia had unearthed.

  Kara sighed as she followed Safia up the stairs.

  It was Tel Aviv all over again.

  No one could console Safia then…and now was no different.

  Kara stopped at the top of the stairs and glanced one last time over toward the misty heights of London in the distance as the sun crested the Thames. She searched her heart for some sense of loss. But all she found was sand. This was not her true home. It never had been.

  She turned her back on London and climbed inside the jet.

  A man in uniform leaned out the cockpit door. “Ma’am, we have clearance from the tower. Ready when you are.”

  She nodded. “Very good, Benjamin.”

  She stepped into the main cabin as the door was secured behind her. The Lear had been customized to suit her needs. The cabin’s interior was furnished in leather and burled walnut, describing four intimate seating groups. Fresh flowers sprouted from Waterford crystal vases secured to seatside tables. A long mahogany bar, an antique out of Liverpool, stood stocked near the rear of the cabin. Beyond the bar, a set of folding doors marked the entry to Kara’s private study and bedroom.