Sandstorm (Page 51)

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.

A mechanical voice answered, synthesized for anonymity. Though its inflection and tone were masked, she knew who spoke. The head of the Guild, simply code-named “The Minister,” as in “prime minister.” It seemed a foolish precaution, cartoonish, but the Guild patterned its organization on terrorist cells. Information passed among teams on a need-to-know basis, each under independent authority, accountable only to the upper echelon. She had never met the Minister; only three people ever had, the three lieutenants who ran the overseer’s board. She hoped to gain such a position someday.

“Gray leader,” the eerily synthesized voice said, using her op designation. “Mission parameters have been changed.”

Cassandra stiffened. She had the time schedule tattooed in her head. Nothing would go wrong. The Shabab’s diesel engines would be blown, signaling a strafing run by the Jet Ski gunboats. An assault team would follow, mopping up, cutting off communication. Once the iron heart was in hand, the ship would be blasted apart and sunk. “Sir? Deployment’s under way. Everything’s in motion.”

“Improvise,” the mechanical voice intoned. “Secure the museum curator along with the artifact. Is that understood?”

Cassandra bit back her surprise. It was not a simple request. The original objective—acquiring the iron artifact—required no parameters for preserving the lives of those on board the Shabab Oman. As planned, it was a brutal grab and run. Blunt, bloody, and swift. She already began revising in her head. “May I ask why we need the curator?”

“She may prove useful to stage two. Our original expert in Arabian antiquity has proven…uncooperative. And expediency is paramount to success if we hope to discover and secure the source of this power. Delay equals defeat. We must not waste the talent conveniently at hand.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Report when you’re successful.” A hint of threat lingered in these last words as the line went dead.

She lowered the phone.

John Kane waited a few steps away.

Cassandra turned to him. “Change of plans. Alert your men. We’re going in first ourselves.” She stared beyond the window of the hydrofoil’s bridge. Off in the distance, the lantern-rigged sailing ship shone like a scatter of fiery jewels on the dark seas.

“When do we deploy?”

“Now.”

1:42 A.M.

P AINTER KNOCKED on the cabin door. He knew the layout of the rooms beyond the ornately carved Scottish oak door. It was the Presidential Suite, reserved for potentates and magnates of industry, and now the domicile of Lady Kara Kensington. Upon boarding the ship earlier, Painter had downloaded information and schematics on the Shabab Oman.

Best to know the lay of the land…even if it was at sea.

A cabin steward opened the door. The older man, standing just shy of five feet, carried himself with the dignity of a much taller man. He was dressed all in white, from small brimless cap to sandals. “Dr. Crowe,” he greeted with a small bow of his head. “Lady Kensington has been expecting you.”

The man turned from the door, motioning him to follow. Past the antechamber, Painter was led to the main living space. The wide room was decorated simply, but elegantly. A large antique Moroccan desk marked off a study, lined with barrister bookshelves. The center of the room contained a pair of overstuffed sofas, upholstered in British Royal Navy blue, flanked by a pair of high-backed chairs, pillowed in Omani fashion, striped in red, green, and white, the colors of the Omani flag. In all, the room held a mix of British and Omani appointments, acknowledgment of their shared histories.

Still, the most dramatic feature of the room was the wide row of windows that overlooked the dark ocean.