Tomilin closed his eyes in irritation. "Volcanoes, h.e.l.l. They're looking for oil. They already planted two t.i.tanium flags on the Lomonosov Ridge, even though they can't legally stake a claim. Now Denmark is p.i.s.sed off. So is Canada and Norway. Not to mention us. And why not? h.e.l.l, there's at least ninety billion barrels down there."

Charbonnet thought about it. "They're up to something. But why the icebreakers?" He looked at Rachel. "That's no accident."

She shook her head. "I wouldn't think so."

"Are we sure it's the Russians?"

"Has to be."

Tomilin scowled. "The problem is, our hands are tied. We can't send our subs in there, or even fly over. The situation is too touchy. They'd blow it out of proportion, claiming it's an act of war. The 1982 United Nations Law of the Sea Treaty automatically ent.i.tles the countries whose coastlines surround the Arctic Ocean-the United States, Russia, Canada, Denmark, and Russia-to sovereign rights to oil, gas, and minerals for two hundred miles off their continental shelves. Russia claims that its shelf, the Lomonosov Ridge, actually extends another twelve hundred or so miles from Siberia to the North Pole, almost to Ellesmere Island, which belongs to Canada. And, as I said, they're sending ROV's down there to plant territorial flags, like it's some kind of land rush. And they've stepped up their military presence with Typhoon-cla.s.s subs. Naturally, the Canadians are up in arms and the rest of the powers are nervous as h.e.l.l-and the U.S. hasn't even signed the Treaty. Russia supplies most of the EU with oil, and the Chinese buy from them, so if they get control of the Arctic oil, they could easily become the world's biggest energy supplier. We could be looking at another cold war shaping up here." He permitted himself a thin smile. "A really cold war."

Rachel nodded, not reacting to his joke. There was something about the man that gave her the creeps, and she didn't want to encourage any warmth between them. "I flagged it as VRK, azure level." VRK was "Very Restricted Knowledge". "It's already been wiped from Intelink."

"Okay, good. Keep it b.u.t.toned up, at all costs." For a moment he sat in silence, staring at the opposite wall. Then he shook his head angrily. "If the Russians get their hands on that oil, they'll be the ones controlling oil prices, instead of us. They could just sit on it and create another artificial shortage."

Charbonnet showed him a huge grin. "That's our job."

Tomilin glared at him with eyes that were chips of iron. "You're G.o.ddam right it is." He flicked his gaze to Rachel. "Keep on it. And keep me informed. All intel comes to this office and nowhere else. I mean nowhere. And nothing leaves this room. Do I make myself clear?"

Getting to her feet, Rachel gave him a solemn nod and headed for the door.

ELEVEN.

Alexandria WHEN Flinders had finished packing they returned to the Bibliotheca Alexandrina so she could finish photographing the papyrus in the Digital Ma.n.u.scripts Library. Then she deposited the scroll in a temperature-and-humidity-controlled vault. Their plan was to drive to Cairo, where they could check into a hotel to give Flinders time to work on the translation, away from prying eyes in Alexandria. Skarda had considered changing cars, but the three kidnappers hadn't seen April or himself and so had no reason to a.s.sociate Flinders with the BMW.

But now in the thick snarl of traffic on the Corniche, April kept flicking her eyes to the rear-view mirror. She'd glimpsed a battered Peugeot behind them a few too many times, weaving between close-packed cars and buses.

Then there it was again, ducking into an opening behind an olive green vegetable truck.

"We've got company," she announced.

In the rear seat, Flinders twisted her neck to look behind them, her face going pale.

Stomping on on the accelerator, April shot past a packed red-and-white commuter bus, then slotted the X5 behind an empty Army personnel carrier, igniting an explosion of honking horns and flashing headlights. She mashed the brakes, grinning at the immediate blare of more irate horns as the tires squealed in protest. Then, seesawing across the road, she plunged into a side street narrowed to a barely-navigable aisle by a clot of Peugeots, Fiats, and Lanas double-parked on both sides of the roadway.

Twisting around, Flinders glanced out the rear window. She let out as little scream. The black Peugeot was fishtailing onto the street behind them, boomeranging off a parked Fiat with a loud crunch of metal against metal.

"Any idea where this street goes?" April yelled out.

Flinders whipped around, sizing up the territory ahead. She jabbed a finger past April's shoulder. "Turn there! Left, left, left!"

With screeching tires, April swerved, the wheel vibrating in her hand as the BMW jumped the curb and carved a furrow in the gra.s.s of the parkway. On the sidewalk, a startled group of women in hajibs and abayas turned their faces in shock, then broke and ran. Groceries scattered. When the Peugeot screamed around the corner, one of the women lobbed an orange at its rear window. It splattered in an explosion of pulp.

Grinning, April watched the Peugeot carom off another parked car. She glanced over at Skarda. "These guys are idiots. I think we should stop and have some fun with them."

He shook his head. "What if they've got guns?"

That earned him an indifferent shrug. "Maybe it would even the odds." Spinning the wheel into a hard right, she ducked into a one-way street, heading north toward Safia Zaghloul Street. In the mirror she could see the driver shouting into his cell phone.

Still looking behind her, Flinders was squirming left and right. "Guns...? Did you say 'guns'?"

Then suddenly the car was gone.

Glancing from the mirror to Skarda, April scowled. "I think these Bozos have something up their sleeve."

Punching the gas, she rocketed onto Safia Zaghloul. They were speeding past the Kom el-Dikka, the archaeological park where the ruins of a second-century Roman amphitheater had been excavated. From here they could head north to hook up with the Cairo-Alexandria Desert Road.

On the left an alley connected to the main street.

From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a blur of motion- A heartbeat later she was punching the accelerator to the floor. The X5 surged ahead.

But it was too late- From the mouth of the alley a dented panel truck cannonballed toward them, smashing the BMW broadside with a sickening crunch of sheet metal, pile-driving it past a stand of sycamore and cypress trees toward a low stone wall, trapping the pa.s.senger-side wheels while the panel truck maintained its inexorable push forward. Metal screeched, buckling like tin foil as the X5 toppled over the wall, rolling top over bottom down the steep embankment toward the marble terraces of the amphitheater.

At the top of the hill the panel truck teetered on the wall, its rear wheels locking it in place. The driver, an Arabic teenager, kicked open his door and took off running as the Peugeot roared up, slamming to a stop.

Jumping out, the muscular Egyptian popped the trunk, hauling out two unwieldy plastic bags, bulging with some kind of liquid. He hopped over the wall, then half-slid down the embankment, dragging the bags. At the foot of the terrace the BMW lay toppled on its side, leaking gas, its tires spinning uselessly. April lay sprawled half on the marble, half on the gra.s.s, unconscious, her right foot hooked inside the open driver's-side door. Yanking open the rear door, the man stooped and pulled Flinders out by her armpits. She was unconscious, too, a bruise already purpling the skin above her right eye. The Egyptian dragged her a few feet away and dumped her on the gra.s.s, then walked back to the X5 to grab her laptop, sparing a brief glance at Skarda, who sat slumped against the door. Blood trickled down the side of his face.

Flinders groaned. Paying no attention to her, the man heaved the bags on top of the X5, then slashed them open with a knife. Gas gushed out in torrents. Then he returned to Flinders, bending over her and slapping her cheeks with his open palm.

Again she groaned. Her eyelids quivered, then opened. Her nose wrinkled with the stink of the raw gas. For a moment she didn't focus, but then she saw the man and froze. Her mouth opened in a scream.

"Quiet," he warned. He showed her his knife. "Or I'll slash your throat right here."

Her feet kicked against the gra.s.s as she tried to wriggle away. "Leave me alone!"

The man snarled and backhanded her, connecting with a solid slap. She yelped in pain. Then he grabbed her bicep and hauled her up the hill, struggling and kicking, hanging onto the laptop with his free hand. At the top he manhandled her behind the low wall, then turned, pulling a road flare from his pocket. Behind him the two men in the Peugeot watched from the side of the road.

From her position Flinders couldn't see the BMW, but in a flash of horror she realized what he was going to do.

"No!" She squirmed, bucking to wriggle out of his grasp. She had to stop him. The man backhanded her again, knocking her to the ground. She tasted blood.

He spat out a string of harsh words in Arabic.

Then he twisted the cap off the flare, slashing the ignition b.u.t.ton against the striker. It flashed into flame.

With a triumphant smirk, he stepped back and lobbed the flare into empty s.p.a.ce.

TWELVE.

NSA Headquarters, Fort Meade, Maryland AT the fourth checkpoint an emotionless guard scrutinized Rachel's pa.s.s, then waved her through into the employee parking lot. Slotting her car, she got out, looking at the sleek twin modern office high rises whose black one-way mirrored gla.s.s reflected a shadowy panorama of the thickly-forested Maryland landscape. This was NSA Headquarters, a complex of fifty buildings linked by thirty-two miles of roads and protected by a labyrinth of barbed wire fences, surveillance systems, cement barriers, and armed patrols. Those dark mirrors, she knew, were composed of two panes of bulletproof gla.s.s sandwiched between five inches of sound-deadening empty s.p.a.ce and swathed in Tempest protective copper shielding, designed to keep any kind of electromagnetic radiation signal from escaping to the ears of electronic eavesdroppers. NSA had no problem at all keeping its secrets safe.

At the Canine Street entrance she entered the pentagon-shaped Visitor Control Center, inserting her blue security badge into the CONFIRM terminal. Then she swiped the card again to enter a private elevator to the bas.e.m.e.nt of OPS 2A, the tallest building in the complex. From here she pa.s.sed the SSOC to the black rectangle that was the OPS 2B building and rode another private elevator to the eighth floor. Walking past the Russian Technical Library, she entered a covered pa.s.sageway that lead into OPS 1, the original A-shaped NSA headquarters built in 1957.

The swipe of a second card clicked open the lock of Room 2W 105. She entered a small reception area with an empty receptionist's desk-a desk that never had been and never would be occupied. At an inner door she waited while a recognition scanner ran a beam over the trabecular network of her iris. Unlike biometric systems that scanned fingerprints or DNA samples, an iris scanner can't be fooled, especially when combined with a live tissue verification module. Even identical twins-who share duplicate DNA-have unique iris patterns.

When the lock clicked open she entered a windowless room whose whitewashed walls were bare except for an oversized LCD monitor. A conference table and chairs for eight sat in the middle of the s.p.a.ce, and at the east end, an oak desk. Seated behind the desk was a man she knew only as Sanctuary. Long ago his true ident.i.ty had been wiped clean from databases world-wide. He was in his mid-forties, with balding salt-and-pepper hair and eyes the color of graphite.

Nodding a wordless greeting, Sanctuary settled himself behind his desk, thumbing on the two monitors that faced him: one computer was dedicated to cla.s.sified work and Intelink, the NSA intranet whose highly secure databases gave him access to raw intelligence reports and intercepts, linked to the NSA, DIA, FBI, CIA, and NRO; the second for uncla.s.sified. There was also an ultra-secure laptop. Three phone systems sat on the desk as well: one for internal calls; a secure STE encrypted phone for external communications; and a red line that could put him instantly through to Tomilin in the Hart Senate Office Building. No phones connected to the White House-the President had no idea that Sanctuary existed.

Waiting for Sanctuary to speak, Rachel reflected on her two bosses. They couldn't be more different. Even though he came across as cold, almost robot-like, Sanctuary was a consummate professional, a dedicated patriot to his country, and seemingly unconcerned with anything but national security. He reminded her of her parents, both soldiers killed in service to their country, who had instilled in her a love for America and a reverence for the flag and what it stood for.

But Tomilin...

Thinking about him, she suppressed an internal shudder. Although she'd never caught him ogling her, she had the gut impression that he would like nothing better than to get her into bed. The image of his flame-red hair and the nose stuck on his face like a wedge of cheese flashed through her mind. He was not in any way a good-looking man. Yet he was the toast of DC and a known womanizer. What on earth could any woman find attractive in him? It could only be money. To Rachel, he was the worst kind of hypocrite, wrapping himself in all the propaganda of politics, yet in truth only interested in stuffing his pockets with cash at the expense of the American people.

If this thing was about oil, then Tomilin would find some way to profit from it.

And his friend Charbonnet was on exactly the same page.

Clearing his throat, Sanctuary spoke in a deliberately modulated voice. "So what news does Mr. Tomilin have for me today?"

Rachel smiled, picking up the faint currents of animosity in his tone. There was no love lost between the two men, even though Tomilin was officially Sanctuary's superior. They rarely spoke to each other. This was the reason Rachel acted as the liaison between the two offices.

In broad strokes she filled him in on the discovery of the icebreaker hulks sunk in formation on the Gakkel Ridge and Tomilin's concern that the Russians were trying to get a monopoly on the Arctic Ocean oil reserves.

Sanctuary slumped back in his chair and thought about it for a moment. "Okay. I want you to start looking into these icebreakers. Who bought them? Where did they come from? Let's start from there and start putting the pieces of the puzzle together."

THIRTEEN.

Alexandria WHEN the truck slammed into them, April yelled at Skarda and Flinders to get out, then shouldered her own door open, flinging herself into open s.p.a.ce as the X5 crashed against the gra.s.sy embankment. But her timing was thrown off. Bouncing off a hillock of earth, the BMW was rocked by a jarring thud. Her forehead smacked against the side panel and she flew out backwards, hooking her foot inside the door and smacking the back of her skull on the ancient terrace.

For a while she lay crumpled in a heap, half on the marble, half on the gra.s.s. Then consciousness slowly seeped into her brain and she snapped to her senses, instantly alert like a wild animal, her brain registering the shadowed shape that was Skarda slumped in the pa.s.senger seat, the sharp odor of raw gasoline, and the slow arc of the falling flare.

A split-second later she was charging up the steep hill toward the road.

The flare had almost finished its descent when she lunged out, throwing out her long arm to catch it. It gave out a faint hiss as she snuffed it out in the gra.s.s. Out of sight, beyond the crest of the hill, she could hear Flinders' desperate screams and cries for help. April's legs pounded. She reached the summit, taking a instant visual snapshot: Flinders with her back on the gravel, kicking and flailing; the muscular Egyptian stooped over her, trying to grab her bicep to haul her to her feet; the battered Peugeot in the background with the man's two accomplices looking on with grins stamped on their faces.

At the top of the hill she rose to her full height. "Hey. Lose this?"

The man spun around to see April standing there, smiling, casually holding up the burnt-out flare. His expression turned ugly. He swore and charged at her, raising the knife over his head. Sidestepping him easily, she lowered her shoulder and rammed him in the stomach, then straightened her spine, using his own momentum to send him flying over the stone wall. A satisfying crack came to her ears as his neck broke on the hard ground.

She stormed at the Peugeot, where the two men sat staring with stunned faces. Then the Egyptian on the pa.s.senger side slid over into the driver's seat, twisted the ignition key, and the black car took off in a roostertail of gravel.

April stooped to Flinders. "You okay?"

She nodded. "I think so."

"Okay. Wait here."

April pitched down the hill. Skarda was conscious, dragging his tall frame out of the X5's door. She grabbed him by the armpits and hauled him free.

In the distance they heard the whoop-whoop of police sirens wailing toward them.

___.

Two hours later they were at the Misr Station, where Skarda bought three tickets on the Turbini, the express train between Alexandria and Cairo. The police lieutenant who questioned them had been sympathetic to their story of the truck coming out of nowhere, especially when he learned that the dead man was a local criminal with a long list of charges against him, including attempted murder. And Skarda had made sure to push an envelope stuffed with Egyptian pound notes across the desk. In Alexandria the cops expected baksheesh.

In the chilled air conditioning of their first-cla.s.s compartment, Skarda watched the flat expanse of desert begin to plateau into a series of low terraces stacked upon each other, cut up by wadis and an occasional deep ravine slashed out of the sand by a rainstorm. Across from him April sat with her eyes closed, meditating, her body swaying slightly to the thrumming jostle of the train. Sightseeing was of no use to her-she was using the downtime to recharge her batteries. Next to her, Flinders bent her head over the monitor of her laptop, her eyes fierce with concentration.

Surrept.i.tiously he studied her. He had no doubt about his growing attraction to her.

But he knew he wasn't ready for romantic involvement. That would come later, when he somehow managed to achieve a private peace. But when that would be, he had no idea.

For a moment he succ.u.mbed to the rocking of the train and let his eyes close. Then, opening them again, he watched her in silence.

The train jerked and she glanced up, seeing him staring at her.

She gave him a warm smile, then dropped her face back to the computer screen.

FOURTEEN.

Alexandria KHALID FAHMY sprawled out in a ratty chair and sucked in smoke from an L & M Red, languidly exhaling into the fetid air of the apartment. Usually he smoked cheap shisha tobacco from a hookah, but lately he'd been paying heed to the government warnings about throat cancer, so he'd switched to cigarettes. But the filters made them tasteless, so he broke them off. Settling deeper in the chair, he blew out another cloud of smoke. Now that the dark-haired American woman had killed Hakim, he was at loose ends, bored and unsure what to do. He glanced over at Ahmed, who was idling flipping through the channels of a pirated satellite dish signal.

Idiot.

All Ahmed was supposed to do was stick the other b.i.t.c.h with the needle and then they could have delivered her to the hotel and gotten paid.

But everything had gone wrong. It was Hakim who had taken care of the business arrangements and now they had nothing. No money. No future. Khalid surveyed the peeling paint and black stains on the walls and collapsed further into the cushions, depressed.

A knock sounded at the door. Now what? Khalid dragged himself to his feet, shaking his head as he turned the lock. A tall woman stood in the opening, her blonde hair sticking up in furrows of spikes and her face strangely bloated. An American? Lost, maybe. Khalid wanted no part of her problems. He hated Western women, anyway. With an impatient hand, he started to close the door, but the woman slapped her palm against it and held it open, grinning like she knew something he didn't.

Ignoring Khalid's snapping eyes, she leaned inside to spot Ahmed, who hadn't bothered to turn around at the intrusion. He was still thumbing through the channels, one by one.

The woman's nose wrinkled at the stench of body odor and cheap cigarette smoke. "You know what I hate worse than failure?" she asked. The grin had tightened to a hard slash. She didn't look at all happy.