SANDSTORM sf-1

by James Rollins

  “No.” Safia pushed past the sedative haze. “I can manage.”

  Kara nodded. “We’re due to rendezvous at the port at midnight.”

  Painter held up a hand. “You never did tell us how we’d be traveling.”

  Kara waved away his words like a foul smell. “You’ll all see when we get there. I have a thousand last minute details to attend to.” She strode past Omaha and out of the rooms. Her words carried back as she addressed the others in the hall. “Gather in the courtyard in an hour.”

  Omaha and Painter stood across the room from each other, on either side of Safia. Neither man moved, both equally unsure if it was appropriate to comfort Safia. The matter was settled by Henry stepping through the archway, the butler’s arms full of folded clothing.

  Henry nodded to the two men. “Sirs, I’ve rung for a maid to help Mistress al-Maaz dress and gather her things. If you would be so kind…” He nodded toward the door, dismissing them.

  Painter stepped closer to Safia. “Are you sure you’re okay to travel?”

  She nodded, an effort. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

  “Just the same. I’ll wait outside in the hall for you.”

  This earned him the smallest smile. He found himself matching it.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said.

  He turned. “I know, but I’ll be there anyway.”

  Painter found Omaha studying him, his eyes slightly more narrowed than a moment before. The man’s expression was tight. He was clearly suspicious, but also a trace of anger lay under the surface.

  As Painter crossed toward the door, Omaha made no room to allow him to pass. He had to turn sideways to get by.

  As he did so, Omaha addressed Safia. “You did good in there, babe.”

  “It was just a snake,” she answered, standing to accept the clothes from the butler. “And I have a lot to do before we leave.”

  Omaha sighed. “All right. I hear you.” He followed Painter out the door.

  The others had all cleared, leaving the hallway empty.

  Painter moved to take a post beside the door. Omaha started to march past him, but Painter cleared his throat. “Dr. Dunn…”

  The archaeologist stopped, glancing sidelong at him.

  “That snake,” Painter said, following a thread left untied earlier. “You said you thought it came from outside. Why?”

  Omaha shrugged, stepping back a bit. “Can’t say for sure. But carpet vipers like the afternoon sun, especially when shedding. So I can’t imagine it was holed up in there all day.”

  Painter stared over at the closed door. Safia’s room had an eastern exposure. Morning sunlight only. If the archaeologist was correct, the snake would’ve had to travel a long way from a sunny roost to the tub.

  Omaha read his thoughts. “You don’t think someone put it there?”

  “Maybe I’m just being too paranoid. But didn’t some militant group once try to kill Safia?”

  The man scowled, an expression worn into the lines of his face. “That was five years ago. Way up in Tel Aviv. Besides, if someone planted that snake, it couldn’t have been those bastards.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Omaha shook his head. “The extremist group was rooted out by Israeli commandos a year later. Wiped out, actually.”

  Painter knew the details. It was Dr. Dunn who had helped the Israelis hunt the extremists down, using his contacts in the area.

  Omaha mumbled, more to himself than Painter, a bitter tone. “Afterward, I thought Safia would be relieved…would return here…”

  It’s not that easy, guy. Painter already had a good fix on Omaha. The man tackled problems head-on, bulled through them without looking back. It wasn’t what Safia needed. He doubted Omaha would ever understand. Still, Painter sensed a well of loss in the man, one that had been filled by the sand of passing years. So he tried to help. “Trauma like that is not overcome by-”

  Omaha cut him off sharply. “Yeah, I’ve heard it all before. Thanks, but you’re not my goddamn therapist. Or hers ” He stalked off down the hall, calling back derisively, “And sometimes, doc, a snake is just a snake.”

  Painter sighed.

  A figure moved from the shadows of a neighboring archway. It was Coral Novak. “That man has issues.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “I overheard your conversation,” she said. “Were you just chatting with him, or do you really think another party is involved?”

  “There’s definitely someone stirring the pot.”

  “Cassandra?”

  He slowly shook his head. “No, some unknown variable.”

  Coral scowled, which consisted of the barest downturn of the corner of her lips. “That’s not good.”

  “No…no, it’s not.”

  “And this curator,” Coral persisted, nodding to the door. “You’ve really got the role of the attentive civilian scientist down pat.”

  Painter sensed a subtle warning in her voice, a cloaked concern that he might be crossing the line between professionalism and something more personal.

  Coral continued, “If there’s another party sniffing around, shouldn’t we be searching the grounds for evidence?”

  “Definitely. That’s why you’re going out there now.”

  Coral raised an eyebrow.

  “I have a door to guard,” he said, answering her unspoken question.

  “I understand.” Coral began to turn away. “But are you staying here to safeguard the woman or the mission?”

  Painter let command harden his voice. “In this particular case, they’re one and the same.”

  11:35 P.M.

  SAFIA STAREDout at the passing scenery. The two tablets of diazepam kept her head muzzy. Lights from passing streetlamps were phosphorous blurs, smudges of light across the midnight landscape. The buildings were all dark. But ahead, a blaze of light marked the port of Muscat. The commercial harbor was active twenty-four hours a day, kept bright with floodlights and sodium-lit warehouses.

  As they rounded a tight turn, the harbor came into view. The bay was mostly empty, most of the oil barges and container ships having docked before sunset. During the night, their cargo would be off-loaded and reloaded. Even now, H-cranes and trundling train-car-size containers swung through the air, like giant toy blocks. Farther out, near the horizon, a behemoth of a cruise liner floated on the dark waters like some candlelit birthday cake, backdropped against a spray of stars.

  The limo aimed away from the commotion toward the far side of the harbor, where the more traditional dhow sailing vessels of Arabia stood docked. For thousands of years, Omanis had plied the seas, from Africa to India. The dhows were simple wooden-planked shells with a distinctive triangular sail. They varied in size from the shallow draft of the badan form to the deep-sea baghlah. The proud array of old ships lined the far harbor, stacked close together, sails furled, masts poking high amid tangles of ropes.

  “We’re almost there,” Kara mumbled to Safia from the other side of the limo. The only other occupant, besides the driver and a bodyguard, was Safia’s student, Clay Bishop. He snorted a bit when Kara spoke, half drowsing.

  Behind them trailed the other limo with all the Americans: Painter and his partner, Omaha and his brother.

  Safia sat straighter now. Kara had yet to tell her how they were getting to Salalah, only that they were heading to the harbor. So she guessed they would be traveling by boat. Salalah was a coastal city, like Muscat, and travel between the two cities was almost easier by sea than by air. Transports, both cargo and passenger, left throughout the day and night. They varied from diesel-engine ferries to a pair of lightning-fast hydrofoils. Considering Kara’s urgency to be under way, Safia guessed they’d be taking the fastest vessel possible.

  The limo turned through the gated entry, followed by its twin. Both continued down the pier, passing rows and rows of docked dhows. Safia was familiar with the regular passenger terminal. This wasn’t it. They were heading down the wrong pier. />
  “Kara…?” she began.

  The limo cleared the last harbor office at the end of the pier. Parked beyond, lit by lights and crowded with clusters of line-haulers and dock-workers, stood a magnificent sight. From the commotion and the unfurled sails, there could be no doubt this was their transportation.

  “No,” Safia mumbled.

  “Yes,” Kara answered, sounding none too pleased.

  “Holy Christ,” Clay said, leaning forward, the better to see.

  Kara checked her watch. “I couldn’t refuse the sultan when he offered us its use.”

  The limo pulled athwart the pier’s end. Doors opened. Safia climbed to her feet, swaying a bit as she stared at the top of the hundred-foot masts. The ship’s length was almost twice that.

  “The Shabab Oman, ” she whispered in awe.

  The high-masted clipper ship was the sultan’s pride, the country’s maritime ambassador to the world, a reminder of its nautical history. It had the traditional English design of a square-rigged foremast, the main and aft masts bearing both square and sloop sails. Built in 1971 from Scottish oak and Uruguayan pine, it was the largest vessel of its era in the world that was still seaworthy and in active service. For the past thirty years, it had traveled throughout the world, participating in races and regattas.

  Presidents and premiers, kings and queens, had strode its deck. And now it was being lent to Kara for her personal transportation to Salalah. This, more than anything, demonstrated the sultan’s esteem for the Kensington family. Safia now understood why Kara could not refuse.

  Safia had to suppress a small bit of glee, surprised by the burbling feeling. Worries of snakes and nagging doubts dimmed. Maybe it was just the drugs, but she preferred to believe it was the fresh salt of the sea breeze, clearing her head and her heart. How long had it been since she’d felt this way?

  By now, the other limo had drawn up and parked. The Americans climbed out, all eyes wide on the ship.

  Only Omaha seemed unimpressed, having already been informed of the change in transportation. Still, to see the ship in person clearly affected him. Though, of course, he tried to hide it. “Great, this whole expedition is turning into a great big Sinbad movie.”

  “When in Rome…” Kara mumbled.

  11:48 P.M.

  CASSANDRA WATCHEDthe ship from across the harbor. The Guild had secured this warehouse through contacts with a trafficker in black-market pirated videos. The back half of the rusted structure was stacked with crates of bootlegged DVDs and VHS videos.

  The remainder of the warehouse, though, met her requirements. Formerly a mechanics shop, it had its own enclosed dry dock and berth. Water slapped in a continual rhythm against the nearby pilings, disturbed by the wake of a passing trawler heading out to sea.

  The motion jostled the group of attack vessels brought in last week. Some had arrived disassembled in crates, then reassembled on-site; others were brought in by sea in the dead of night. Rocking in the berth were three Boston whalers, each tethering a rack of sleek, black Jet Skis, modified by the Guild with swivel-mounted assault rifles. In addition, the dock housed Cassandra’s command boat, a hydrofoil capable of rocketing to speeds in excess of a hundred knots.

  Her twelve-man team bustled about with final preparations. They were all ex-Special Forces, like herself, but these hard men had never been recruited by Sigma. Not that they weren’t intelligent enough. Drummed out of the Forces, most had gone into various mercenary and paramilitary groups around the world, learning new skills, growing harder and more cunning. From these men, the Guild had handpicked those with the best adaptability, the keenest intelligence, those who demonstrated the fiercest loyalty to their team, traits even Sigma would have appreciated. Only in the Guild’s case, one criterion was paramount: These men had no qualms about killing, no matter the target.

  Her second-in-command approached. “Captain Sanchez, sir.”

  She kept her attention on the video feed from the exterior cameras. She counted as Painter’s party climbed aboard the ship and were greeted by Omani officials. Everyone was aboard. She finally straightened. “Yes, Kane.”

  John Kane was the only non-American in the group. He had served in the elite Australian SAS, Special Air Services. The Guild did not limit its talent search to U.S. borders, especially as it operated internationally. Standing over six and a half feet, Kane was solidly muscled. He kept his head shaved smooth, except for a patch of black hair under his chin.

  The team here was actually Kane’s own men, positioned in the Gulf until called to duty by the Guild. The organization had teams planted throughout the world, independent cells who knew nothing about the others, each ready at a moment’s notice to do the Guild’s bidding.

  Cassandra had been sent to activate this particular cell and lead the mission, gaining the assignment because of her knowledge of Sigma Force, the Guild’s adversary on this op. She knew how Sigma operated, their strategies and procedures. She also had intimate knowledge of their op leader-Painter Crowe.

  “We’re locked and loaded,” Kane said.

  Cassandra nodded, checked her watch. The Shabab Oman was due to disembark at the stroke of midnight. They would wait a full hour, then set off in pursuit. She stared again at the video monitor and calculated in her head.

  “The Argus ?” she asked.

  “Radioed in a few minutes ago. She’s already in position, patrolling our attack zone to ensure no trespassers.”

  The Argus was a four-man submersible, capable of off-loading divers without surfacing. Its peroxide-propellant engines and ordnance of mini-torpedoes made it as fast as it was deadly.

  Cassandra nodded again. All was in place.

  None aboard the Shabab would live to see the dawn.

  MIDNIGHT

  HENRY STOODin 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.

  9

  Blood on the Water

  DECEMBER 3, 1:02 A.M.

  ARABIAN SEA

  SAFIA STOODat the rail, staring at the dark coastline as it floated past. The ship creaked and groaned around her. Sails snapped as the winds twis
ted 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 wordsGOT 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.”