“Early Hebrew.” Rory pinched his brows together. “But why wouldn’t she inscribe herself with Hebrew? We know that written language goes back eight thousand years. And from the radiocarbon dating we got back, we know the mummy is from around 1300 B.C.”
“Maybe she was raised in Egypt and taught to write hieroglyphics. It might be the only written language she knew. Which got me thinking.”
“About what?”
“What if she’s descended from those who fled the plague during the time of Moses, part of a lost Jewish tribe who escaped south rather than east with the rest of their people? That could explain why her group knew to write in hieroglyphics but spoke early Hebrew.”
Rory leaned closer, clearly growing excited. “If that group was taught to write, which was rare, it would suggest they were scribes.”
She nodded. “A sect that maintains records. So perhaps they sought to preserve knowledge of this plague.”
“And maybe how to stop it,” Rory whispered. “We could be close to the answer.”
Safia knew her primary role here was to follow the thread of history to a possible cure for whatever Harold brought out of the desert. While she worked her angle, other researchers at the station tackled the same question through scientific means. But she still didn’t know what Simon Hartnell wanted with this cure. When she first met him, he claimed her efforts could save the world.
If so, then why all the bloodshed and secrecy?
Rory drew her back to the topic at hand. “But can we be sure we’re on the right track?”
As support, Safia brought more of her work up onto the screen.
“These three glyphs were marked across her forehead, about where her hairline might have been. They were encircled in a cartouche, as if important. But the three letters—S, B, and H—are gibberish in the Egyptian language, but what if instead those letters spelled out her name phonetically?” She pronounced it aloud. “Sah-bah.”
“Why is that significant?”
“Sabah is a Hebrew name derived from either Sheba or perhaps Bathsheba.”
“Like from the Bible.”
She nodded. She had her own connection to that heritage, but that was a long story for another time. So she continued, “The typical meaning for that name is daughter of the oath . . . which can be interpreted as someone who is good at keeping secrets.”
“Which she certainly is.” Rory suddenly cracked a wide yawn. “But maybe we need to continue this in the morning.”
She grinned. “You’re right. Get some sleep, and I’ll try to do the same.”
They said their good nights, and Safia reluctantly closed her computer. She wasn’t sure she could sleep, but she should try. She stood, stretched, and took a step toward her bed—then froze when she heard the rasp of the door bolt being pulled.
She turned, taking a step back, expecting the worst.
The door opened, and Anton entered, his face nearly purplish with fury.
Her heart pounded in her throat, panicked.
What did I do wrong?
Then suddenly he was shoved from behind. Two figures followed him into her cell. One was a stranger, but the other made her want to sob with relief.
“Painter . . .”
3:23 A.M.
Painter left Kat to guard Anton and strode forward. He embraced Safia, feeling her shake in his arms. “Are you okay?”
“Better now,” she mumbled.
“Then how about we get you out of here?”
“That sounds splendid.”
He let her go and guided her to the door.
“Wait.” She broke away and grabbed a laptop from a small desk. “What about Rory?”
Kat glanced hard her way but kept her SIG Sauer pointed at Anton’s neck. “Rory McCabe? He’s here?”
Safia nodded. “A prisoner like me. It’s a long story.”
Painter scowled. No wonder Anton had been willing to bring them here, even at gunpoint. The bastard had been holding an ace up his sleeve.
“Do you know where he’s being held?” Kat asked.
“I . . . I don’t know. They always brought me to my room first.”
Painter swung toward Anton. “Looks like we have another stop to make before we leave.”
Anton glanced to a camera mounted on the room’s ceiling, then smiled coldly. “No.”
His expression told Painter everything. This had been his plan all along. A delaying tactic. They had marched Anton here with a pistol pressed into his lower back, avoiding cameras as much as possible.
But now?
Painter crossed to him, but Anton lifted his chin, ready to take whatever abuse was to be inflicted. But Painter had other intentions.
When you have a crap hand, your best move is to bluff.
“How much do you love your sister?” he asked. “And we know her name isn’t Velma.”
Anton’s eyes narrowed. Painter had already demonstrated knowledge of Anton’s real name, so it was easy enough to get the man to believe he had the same intel on his sister.
Painter pressed his case. “You both clearly share a connection . . . or at least, the same taste in tattoos.” He touched his own cheek. “Did you get them before or after the Guild hired you?”
Anton stiffened, clearly unsettled by this intimate knowledge of their past.
Now to drive it home.
“We have your sister in custody,” he lied. “Interpol picked her up an hour ago. That’s why we made our move just now. If you want to see her alive again, then you’ll take us to Rory and escort us to the nearest exit.”
Past a window in Safia’s cell, storm clouds had swallowed the sun as the weather front moved over the island. Once out there, Painter planned on using his satellite phone to call in the forces waiting at Thule. If there was a problem, the backup plan was to commandeer a vehicle and take off into the neighboring icy mountains to await rescue, using the storm as cover.
But all those plans hinged on how much Anton loved his sister.
The man stared daggers at Painter, then finally heaved out a growled sigh. “He is not far.”
Kat poked Anton with her pistol. “Then show us.”
Painter opened the door, checked the hallway, then marched out with Safia beside him. He kept his pistol at his thigh. “Stay close.”
Kat followed with Anton. She kept hold of the back of his belt with her gun against the base of his spine. They headed over two passageways and around a corner. It truly wasn’t far.
Anton nodded to a door. “In there.”
Painter used the all-access keycard he had pilfered from Anton and swiped open the lock. He then pulled the bolt and hauled open the door.
The room was dark. A figure jolted from a bed against the wall. “Who . . . what is going on?”
Safia stepped forward. “Rory, it’s me.”
“Safia?”
She quickly explained as the young man’s gaze shifted all around, struggling to catch up. “Come,” she said, waving to him. “We have to hurry.”
Rory had already gained his feet and was tugging a pair of coveralls over his boxers. As he struggled to dress, he looked at her. “But Safia . . .”
“What?”
“The mummy. It’s the only hope for a cure. If what you described about the plague spreading in Egypt and back home . . .”
Safia turned to Painter. “How bad has it gotten?”
Kat answered, “Bad.”
“And likely to get worse,” Painter added, remembering Dr. Kano’s warning of the secondary genetic damage that could last generations.
Safia turned to Rory and lifted the laptop clutched to her chest. “I have the data we already collected.”
Rory looked scared, divided between wanting to run and knowing what they might leave behind. “But you know it’s incomplete.”
Safia turned to Painter. “He’s right. If they destroy the mummy, any hope for a cure could be lost.”
Painter didn’t fully understand what she was talking a
bout, but he trusted the certainty in her eyes. “What can we do? It’s not like we can haul a mummified body out with us.”
She looked crestfallen. “It’s also contaminated, like Professor McCabe’s body. They have it locked in a biolab.”
“Then we leave it,” Kat said. “We can secure it once Colonel Wycroft’s forces arrive.”
Rory pulled on a set of boots. “I read the protocol,” he said. “At the first sign of a security breach, they’re going to incinerate the lab.”
Painter didn’t doubt such a failsafe had been established. The enemy had done the same with the professor’s body back in the United Kingdom, firebombing the research lab where it had been held. Anton also offered further confirmation by sneering at Rory, furious at him for revealing this detail.
“We’ll only have this one opportunity,” Safia said.
Rory offered a suggestion, heaving to his feet. “The 3-D scanner.”
Safia straightened. “My god, that’s right. We left the mummy in a topographical scanner. To complete a detailed intradermal map of the body’s entire surface.” She checked her watch. “It should be done by now.”
Rory nodded. “If we can pull the results and take them with us . . .”
Safia winced. “That means going back to the biolab.”
Kat glanced at Painter and lifted a brow. “So one more stop?”
“We’ll have to be quick.”
She faced Safia. “How far away is it?”
“Not too far, but it’s down three levels.”
So back into the heart of the station.
Kat shared a worried look with Painter. “Maybe it’s best if we don’t lead a parade down there.” She eyed Anton, plainly not trusting his cooperation for much longer.
“I can take Rory,” Painter said. “You all hole up here.”
Kat shook her head. “Two women would pose less of a threat. Especially if one is wearing a security uniform and escorting a female prisoner.”
Painter wanted to argue but recognized the advantage to Kat’s plan. And she certainly looked unwilling to bend on this point.
Safia stepped forward. “I can do this.”
With the matter decided, Painter pointed his weapon at Anton. “Strip.”
In moments, Kat had changed into his black coveralls. She tucked up her hair and pulled on his security cap. She then turned to Safia. “Ready?”
Though Safia eyes shone with fear, she nodded.
Kat led her to the door. She checked to make sure the way was clear, then ushered her outside. Before leaving, she glanced back. “I’ll keep her safe.”
Painter nodded and swallowed hard.
She closed the door behind her.
Painter kept his weapon leveled at Anton. In boxers and bare feet, the man looked less of a threat, but Painter refused to let down his guard. He kept Anton standing against the wall with his hands up. Those cold eyes ignored him, tracking instead Rory as he paced anxiously back and forth by the door.
Finally that gaze settled back on him. “You will never get away from here,” Anton said, his accent heavy with disgust. “Both your women will suffer.”
“We’ll see about—”
Painter sensed the threat a moment too late. A shift of shadows, a scrape of metal on metal. He turned to see Rory swinging a desk lamp at his head. The heavy base caught him square on the temple. Pain and bright light flared across his skull. He fell down to a knee.
Anton leaped from the wall, grabbed his arm, and twisted the pistol from his grip.
Painter toppled to his side, his head still ringing.
With the stolen gun pointed at his new prisoner, Anton reached and touched Rory on the arm, almost tenderly. “Well done, my tigryenok.”
Anton passed Rory the pistol, then efficiently patted down Painter’s body, removing his satellite phone. Once satisfied there were no other weapons or means of communication, he stood and backed toward the door.
Rory’s expression was apologetic. “You don’t understand what’s at stake,” he tried to explain, as Anton drew him out of the room.
As the pair left, bolting the door behind them, Painter did understand one thing.
It seemed Anton had had more than one ace up his sleeve all along.
With a groan, he remembered Kat’s last words, hoping they proved true.
I’ll keep her safe.
3:40 A.M.
From the safety of the anteroom, Kat watched Safia enter the secure lab. Suited up and dragging an air hose, she looked as if she were wading into the depths of a toxic sea.
The two of them had wasted no time getting down here. Luckily they had not run into anyone in the halls at this lonely hour, and Anton’s passkey had gained them easy entry into the deserted lab. The smoothness of everything set Kat’s teeth on edge, even here in the locked room.
C’mon, Safia, hurry up.
Despite the urgency twanging her every nerve, Kat recognized that Safia had to follow proper safety protocols. The woman stepped over to a computer station with cables running to four laser cameras that looked like long-barreled pistols, all pointing toward a diminutive, shrunken figure seated with her head bowed on a black throne.
On the way down here, Safia had told her the body had been recovered from a dig in the Sudan, from wherever Professor McCabe had vanished. She had been assigned to learn this ancient woman’s secret. The enemy believed her body held a possible clue to the cure for the pandemic spreading around the world. Safia also believed that Simon Hartnell wanted this knowledge for a very different reason—but what that might be remained a mystery.
Safia tapped at the keyboard and a tray opened to the side. She removed the silvery disk holding the data of the scan and slipped it into a plastic pouch. She had warned Kat that the pouch would also have to be bathed in a disinfectant dunk tank before being taken out. Preparing for that, Safia sought to seal the bag, but her gloved fingers hampered her efforts.
C’mon . . .
Sudden knocking on the door made Kat jump. A familiar voice called from the hallway, breathless and scared.
“Hello, hello!”
Kat stalked to the door. “Rory?”
“Thank god! Hurry!” He sounded winded, like he’d run the entire way. “Anton attacked your friend. I left them fighting. We need to go now!”
“Safia’s still working. I’ll let you in.”
She unlocked the door with Anton’s card and yanked the door hard. Caught off guard while leaning there, Rory stumbled inside. Kat helped him the rest of the way by grabbing the collar of his coverall and tossing him behind her. She then swung low across the threshold with her pistol raised. As she feared, she spotted a shadowy figure down the hall and shot wildly.
A pained gasp followed—accompanied by return fire.
Rounds shot over her head; she heard glass shatter behind her, and Rory cried out. She kept her position but dropped flat to the ground, refusing to give up the advantage of her sheltered position. The gunman, exposed out in the open hallway, was forced to retreat. He laid down a protective barrage until he reached a far corner and slipped out of view. She noted the thick blood trail leading there.
Satisfied for the moment, she rolled inside. As she slammed the door, an alarm Klaxon erupted outside, echoing through the station.
Kat shifted the smoking muzzle of her gun toward Rory. When he had arrived a moment ago, she suspected something was amiss, especially after his frantic assertion that Anton had gotten the better of Painter. That seemed unlikely, so she had acted accordingly. If she had been wrong, she would’ve apologized later for her rough treatment of him.
No apology was necessary now.
She stared at Rory. His act had been too good to be forced. He must have been playing them all along—including taking advantage of Safia’s sympathy. Even a moment ago, he must have been trying to lure them out of this highly sensitive room before they barricaded themselves inside.
Rory ignored the threat of Kat’s weapon. Instead, he s
tared in horror at the biolab. Only now did she note the two bullet holes cracked through the window.
Rory took a step back. “Oh, no . . .”
She stood, fearing the worst.
She looked into the next room. Safia was still on her feet—but one of the stray rounds had shredded through her hood, missing her head by inches. The same couldn’t be said of the seated mummy. Its desiccated skull had exploded, struck by the same round or another. As Safia turned toward them, gore from the blowback coated her damaged faceplate.
Rory called to her, pointing. “Safia! Get in the chemical shower!”
Kat was surprised by the depth of the traitor’s concern and reinforced it. “Do it! Hurry!”
Her sharp shout snapped Safia out of her shock and got her moving.
Rory turned to Kat and pointed above the damaged window to a timer counting down from two minutes. “With the lab’s seal broken, the automatic failsafe has engaged. It allows two minutes for evacuation, then everything’s incinerated in there.”
Already metal gates were lowering over the window.
“Is there a way to stop it?”
“Maybe, but I don’t know how.”
Inside the lab, Safia had fled to the shower station. She slapped her palm on the emergency rinse. Disinfectant foam and spray swamped over her suit and the plastic pouch in her other hand. She waited until the grime was washed away, then stepped into the small changing room. She stripped off the suit in a panic, still wearing her gray coveralls beneath.
Behind her, the door into the lab was being sealed with steel shutters.
Safia glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide with fear, but contamination was the least of the pressing dangers.
Rory backed away as Safia shouldered through the last door to join them. His face was a mask of guilt. “You weren’t supposed to be hurt. He promised.”
Safia looked between the weapon in Kat’s hand and Rory. “What’s happening?”
“We’re getting out of here,” she answered and steadied her gun on Rory. “And you’re coming with us.”
Kat drew them all to the door. She checked the hallway. She didn’t know if Anton was still hiding around the corner or if he had sought medical attention. Either way, she knew reinforcements were likely converging here. Her only hope was to take advantage of the momentary chaos, praying a majority of Anton’s crew had been off duty at this late hour, buying her an extra minute of lead time.