SANDSTORM sf-1

by James Rollins

  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 lack of 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 where they’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, s
top 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.