SANDSTORM sf-1

by James Rollins

  She allowed herself a self-satisfied smile upon seeing Painter Crowe’s cocked eyebrow as he surveyed the space. Clearly he was not accustomed to such luxuries on a physicist’s salary, even one supplemented by government work. The plane’s butler handed him a drink. Soda water and ice, it appeared. His glass clinked as he turned.

  “What…no honey-roasted peanuts?” he mumbled as he passed. “I thought we were traveling first class.”

  Her smile grew stale as he crossed and took a seat beside Dr. Novak. Flippant bastard…

  Everyone else began to find their seats as the pilot announced their departure. Safia settled off by herself. Her graduate student, Clay Bishop, was already buckled across the cabin, face pressed to a window. He wore earphones attached to an iPod resting on his lap, lost to everyone else.

  With all in readiness, Kara crossed to the bar. Her usual was waiting for her: a chilled glass of Chardonnay. It came from St. Sebastian, a French winery. Kara had been allowed her first sip on her sixteenth birthday, on the morning of the hunt. Since then, she lifted one glass each morning in honor of her father. She swirled the wineglass and inhaled its crisp bouquet, a hint of peach and oak. Even after so many years, the smell drew her immediately back to that morning, so full of promise. She could hear her father’s laughter, the baying of camels in the distance, the whisper of wind with the dawning sun.

  So close now…after so very long…

  She sipped slowly, drowning the nagging dryness in her mouth. Her head buzzed with the sharpness of the two pills she had taken upon waking two hours earlier. Through her lips, she felt the minor tremor in her fingertips as they held up the glass. One wasn’t supposed to mix alcohol with prescription drugs. But it was only the one glass of Chardonnay. And she owed it to her father.

  She lowered the glass and found Safia studying her. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes glowed with concern. Kara met her gaze, un-flinching, holding it steady. Safia finally broke away to stare out the window.

  Neither had the words to comfort the other. Not any longer…

  The desert had stolen a part of their lives, a part of their hearts. And only out in the sands could it be recovered.

  11:42 A.M.

  MUSCAT, OMAN

  OMAHA SLAMMEDthrough the door to the Ministry of National Heritage.

  The door swinging back almost struck his brother, Danny, in the face as he followed. “Omaha, calm down.”

  “Damn bureaucrats…” He continued his tirade out in the street. “You need a friggin’ permit to wipe your ass here.”

  “You got what you wanted,” Danny said in a conciliatory tone.

  “It took all goddamn morning. And the only reason we finally got the permit to carry gasoline aboard the Rovers-to carry friggin gasoline!-was because Adolf bin Asshole wanted his damn lunch.”

  “Calm down.” Danny grabbed his elbow and dragged him to the curb. Faces turned in their direction.

  “And Safia…Kara’s plane is landing in”-Omaha checked his watch. “In just over an hour.”

  Danny waved for a cab. A white Mercedes sedan pulled away from a nearby taxi stand and slid up to the curb. Danny opened the door and shoved Omaha inside. It was gloriously air-conditioned. Noon in Muscat and it was already over a hundred degrees.

  The cool interior washed the edge from his irritation. He leaned and tapped at the Plexiglas between the backseat and the front. “Seeb Airport.”

  The driver nodded and cut into traffic without signaling, simply barging his way into the lunchtime flow.

  Omaha fell back into his seat beside his brother.

  “I’ve never seen you this nervous,” Danny said.

  “What are you talking about? Nervous? I’m pissed.”

  Danny stared out the window. “Right…like meeting your ex-fiancйe, face-to-face, hasn’t trimmed your fuse a tad short this morning.”

  “Safia has nothing to do with this.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I have no reason to be nervous.”

  “Keep tellin’ yourself that, Omaha.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You shut up.”

  Omaha shook his head. Both of them had had too little sleep since arriving two weeks ago. There were a thousand and one details to attend to when putting together an expedition in such a short time: permits; paperwork; hiring guards, manual labor, and trucks; clearing access from Thumrait Air Base; buying potable water, petrol, guns, salt, dry chemical toilets; organizing personnel. And all of it fell squarely upon the Dunn brothers’ shoulders.

  The trouble back in London had delayed Kara’s arrival. If Kara had been here as planned, preparations for the expedition would’ve gone much more smoothly. Lady Kensington was revered in Oman, the Mother Teresa of philanthropy. Throughout the country, museums, hospitals, schools, and orphanages all bore plaques with her name on them. Her corporation helped win many lucrative contracts-oil, mineral, and fresh water-for the country and its people.

  But after the museum incident, Kara had asked the brothers to maintain a low profile, keep her involvement on a need-to-know basis only.

  So Omaha chewed a lot of aspirin.

  The taxi crossed out of the business district of Muscat and wended through the narrow streets that bordered the stone walls of the old city. They followed a truck loaded with pines, weeping a path of dry needles behind it.

  Christmas trees. In Oman.

  Such was the country’s openness to the West, a Muslim country that celebrated Christ’s birth. Oman’s attitude could be attributed to the monarchy’s head of the state, Sultan Qaboos bin Said. Educated in England, the sultan had opened his country to the wider world, brought extensive civil rights to his people, and modernized his country’s infrastructure.

  The taxi driver turned on the radio. Strains of Bach floated through the Bose speakers. The sultan’s favorite. By royal decree, only classical music could be played at noon. Omaha checked his watch. High noon.

  He stared out the window. It must be good to be king.

  Danny spoke up. “I think we’re being followed.”

  Omaha glanced at his brother to see if he was joking.

  Danny was craning over a shoulder. “The gray BMW, four cars back.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s a BMW,” Danny said more firmly. His brother-a yuppie wannabe, fascinated by all things German-engineered-knew cars. “I spotted the same car parked down the street from our hotel, then again at the entrance to the parking lot for the natural history museum.”

  Omaha squinted. “Could be coincidence…same make, different car.”

  “Five-forty-i. Custom chrome wheels. Tinted privacy glass. Even-”

  Omaha cut him off. “Enough of the sales pitch. I believe you.”

  But if they were truly being followed, only one question stood out.

  Why?

  He flashed back to the bloodshed and violence at the British Museum. Even the newspapers here reported on it. Kara had warned him to be as cautious as possible, to maintain a low profile. He leaned forward. “Take the next right,” he said in Arabic, hoping either to lose or confirm their tail.

  The driver ignored him and continued straight.

  Omaha felt a sudden twinge of panic. He tried the door. Locked.

  They passed the turnoff for the airport.

  Bach continued to stream from the speakers.

  He yanked at the door handle again.

  Crap.

  12:04 P.M.

  AIRBORNE OVER THE MEDITERRANEAN

  SAFIA STAREDat the book in her lap, blind to the words. She had not turned a page in the last half hour. Tension stripped her nerves raw. Her shoulder muscles knotted, and a dull headache made her teeth hurt.

  She glanced out at the sunlit blue skies. Cloudless. A vast blank canvas. It was as if she were leaving one life and sweeping toward another.

  Which in many ways she was.

  She was abandoning London, her flat, the stone walls of the British Museum, all that s
he once thought safe these past ten years. But that safety had proved to be an illusion, so fragile it shattered in a single night.

  Blood once again stained her hands. Because of her work.

  Ryan…

  Safia could not erase the momentary glint of surprise in his eyes as the bullet sliced him from this world. Even weeks later, she felt the need to wash her face repeatedly, sometimes even in the middle of the night. Brown soap and cold water. Nothing washed away the memory of the blood.

  And even though Safia recognized the illusory nature of London’s security, the city had become her home. She had friends, colleagues, a favorite bookstore, a theater that played old movies, a coffeehouse that served the perfect caramel cappuccino. Her life had become defined by the streets and trains of London.

  And then there was Billie. Safia had been forced to foster her cat with Julia, a Pakistani botanist who rented the flat under hers. Before leaving, Safia had whispered promises in the tomcat’s ears, promises she hoped to keep.

  Still, Safia worried, deeply, down to the marrow of her bones. Some of the anxiety was inexplicable, just an overwhelming sense of doom. But most was not. She stared around the cabin. What if they all ended up like Ryan, laid out in the city morgue, then buried in a cold cemetery as the first winter snow fell.

  She simply could not handle that.

  Even the possibility turned her intestines to ice. Her breathing grew pained at the thought. Her hands trembled. Safia fought the wave of panic, sensing its familiar roll. She concentrated on her breathing, focusing outward, away from her own frightened center.

  Across the breadth of the cabin, the drone of the engines had driven everyone else to recline their seat backs, to catch what little sleep they could as they winged south. Even Kara had retreated to her private quarters-but not to nap. Muffled whispers reached to her through the door. Kara was preparing for their arrival, handling the niggling details. Did she ever even sleep anymore?

  A noise drew Safia’s attention back around. Painter Crowe stood beside her chair, appearing as if by magic. He bore a tall tumbler of ice water in one hand and held out a tiny crystal snifter brimming with auburn liquid. Bourbon from the smell of it. “Drink this.”

  “I don’t-”

  “Just drink it. Don’t sip. Down it all.”

  Her hand rose and she accepted the glass, more afraid it was going to spill than from any desire to accept his offering. They hadn’t spoken since that bloody night, except for a brief thank-you after her rescue.

  He lowered into the seat next to her and motioned to the drink. “Go on.”

  Rather than arguing, she lifted the glass and poured the contents down her throat. It burned all the way down, filling her nostrils, then settled with a fiery glow in her belly. She passed the glass back to him.

  He traded it for the glass of water. “Soda water and lemon. Sip it.”

  She did, holding the cup with both hands.

  “Better?”

  She nodded. “I’m fine.”

  He stared at her, half leaning on one shoulder to face her. She kept her gaze averted, focusing on the length of his outstretched legs. He crossed his ankles, exposing his socks. Black argyles.

  “It’s not your fault,” he said.

  She stiffened. Was her guilt so plain? She felt a flush of embarrassment.

  “It’s not,” he repeated. His tone of voice lacked the reassurance of the others who had sought to comfort her with platitudes: colleagues, friends, even the police psychologist. Instead, Painter’s voice was simply matter-of-fact.

  “Ryan Fleming. He was at the wrong place, wrong time. Nothing more.”

  Her eyes flicked to him, then away again. She felt the heat of him, like the bourbon, whiskey-warm and masculine. She found the strength to speak, to argue. “Ryan wouldn’t have been there…if…if I hadn’t been working so late.”

  “Bullshit.”

  The profanity from him startled her.

  Painter continued, “Mr. Fleming was at the museum to supervise us. Coral and me. His presence that night had nothing to do with you or your discovery of the artifact. Do you blame us?”

  A small part of her did. Still, Safia shook her head, knowing who was ultimately to blame. “The thieves were after the heart, my discovery.”

  “And I’m sure it wasn’t the first attempted theft from the museum. I seem to recall a midnight burglary of an Etruscan bust just four months ago. The thieves cut through the roof.”

  Safia kept her head bowed.

  “Ryan was head of security, doing his job. He knew the risks.”

  Though she was not entirely convinced, the tight knot in Safia’s gut loosened a bit. Then again, maybe it was just the alcohol.

  His hand touched hers.

  She flinched, but the American did not retreat. He cupped her hand between his palms, his touch warm after the cold glass of soda water. “Lady Kensington may not welcome our presence on this expedition, but I just wanted you to know that you aren’t alone. We’re in this together.”

  Safia slowly nodded, then slid her hand from between his, uncomfortable by the intimacy, by the attentions of a man she hardly knew. Still, she slipped her hand into her other, preserving the warmth.

  He leaned back, perhaps sensing her discomfort. His eyes glinted with easy amusement. “You just hang in there…I know from experience you’re darned good at that.”

  Safia pictured herself dangling from the museum’s rooftop. How she must have looked! And unbidden, a smile traced the edges of her lips, the first since the horrible night.

  Painter studied her, his expression seeming to say, There you go. He stood up. “I should try to get some sleep…so should you.”

  Thinking such a thing might be possible now, she watched him stride silently across the carpeted cabin, returning to his seat. She lifted a finger and touched her cheek as her smile faded away. The warmth of the bourbon still glowed deep within her, helping her find her center. How could something so simple have brought her so much relief?

  But Safia sensed it wasn’t truly the alcohol so much as the kindness. She had forgotten what that was like. It had been too long. Not since…not since…

  12:13 P.M.

  OMAHA HUNCHEDlow in his seat and kicked again at the divider that separated him from the taxi driver. His heels struck with no effect. It was like kicking steel. Bulletproof glass. He slammed an elbow against the side window in frustration.

  Trapped. Kidnapped.

  “They’re still following us,” Danny said, nodding behind them to the trailing BWM sedan, fifty yards back. Shadowy figures could be seen filling the front and rear seats.

  The taxi rode through a residential area of stucco-and-stone homes, all painted in various shades of white. The sun’s reflection was blinding.

  The other car kept pace behind them.

  Omaha faced forward again. “Leyh?” he spat out in Arabic. “Why?”

  The driver continued to ignore them, stoic and silent, wending his way through the narrow streets with deft skill.

  “We need to get out of here,” Omaha said. “Take our chances in the streets.”

  Danny had turned his attention to his door, staring at the side panel. “ Ton coup-ongles ? Omaha.” His brother was speaking French-clearly attempting to keep the driver from eavesdropping. Danny held out his hand, low, away from the direct view of the driver.

  Omaha fished in a pocket. What did Danny think to accomplish with his coupe-ongles ? Fingernail clippers? He asked in French, “You planning on clipping your way out of here?”

  Danny did not look back, only cocked his head forward. “That bastard up there has us locked in by using the child protection feature of the car. Meant to keep kids from opening the back door.”

  “So?”

  “So we’re going to use the same safety features to get us out.”

  Omaha pulled out the fingernail clipper from his pocket. It hung from his keys. He passed it to Danny, who palmed it.

  “What a
re you-”

  Danny shushed him, flipped open the clippers, and extracted the tiny nail file. “Magazines reported on the sensitivity of the Mercedes’s safety systems. Had to be careful even when removing the access panel.”

  Access panel?

  Before he could ask aloud, Danny turned to him. “How soon do you want to make a break for it?”

  Right now would be good, Omaha thought. But then up ahead, a large open-air souk, or market, appeared. He motioned low. “Up there would be perfect. We could get lost in the shops. Shake loose the others following in the BMW.”

  Danny nodded. “Be ready.” He leaned back, straightening. The nail file poised under three imprinted letters on the sill of the passenger window:SRS

  Safety restraint system

  “Air bags?” Omaha asked, forgetting to speak in French this time.

  “Side air bags,” Danny concurred. “When any of the bags deploy, as a safety feature, all the locks disengage to allow outside emergency rescuers access to the vehicle.”

  “So you’re going to-”

  “We’re almost at the souk,” Danny hissed.

  The driver slowed the Mercedes as it passed the entrance to the market, cautious of the bustle of midday shoppers.

  “Now,” Omaha murmured.

  Danny jabbed the nail file under the SRS panel and savagely dug around, like a dentist struggling with a stubborn molar.

  Nothing happened.

  The sedan slid past the souk, picking up speed.

  Danny leaned in closer, swearing under his breath. A mistake. With a pop of a firecracker, the side air bag ejected, smacking Danny in the face and knocking his head back with its sucker punch.

  An alarm sounded in the car. The driver braked.

  Danny blinked, holding his nose. Blood dripped from under his fingers.

  Omaha did not have time to check further. He reached past his brother and yanked the door handle. It fell open, the lock releasing. Thank God for fine German engineering.

  Omaha shoved. “Out!” he yelled.