unit had staged a hasty ambush.
Now Jason was certain that the only contraband the Arabs aimed to smuggle over the mountains was far more ominous than plutonium: it had been Fahim Al-Zahrani himself. And Jason still feared that Al-Zahrani was plotting an escape. Crawford had better call for backup, he thought.
Finally, the passage widened and yielded to the cave.
At the opening, Jason paused and moved the light beam left to right. All along the walls the bone piles were stacked high - a circle of death.
What happened to these people? Jason wondered as he paced forward and shone the light on the skeletal remains. There had to be thousands of skeletons stashed unceremoniously in this cave. This was definitely not a modern mass grave, like Crawford wanted to believe. But it certainly was evidence of a large-scale burial. There was no telling if the bodies had been buried at the same time.
Working the cave counterclockwise, he walked the perimeter while using the light to scan the bones. Every few feet, something would catch his eye and he’d paused to examine the remains and hunt for clues. Even if these bones came from victims of an ancient war or genocide, there’d be signs of trauma - broken bones, cleaved limbs, gouges left behind by sharp blades. But there was nothing extraordinary about anything he was seeing.
Conversely, modern genocide wasn’t about torture: its focus was annihilation - speed and efficiency. It wasn’t uncommon for dozens or hundreds to be gunned down en masse by automatic weapons. Or if ammunition was slim, the modern executioner might opt to work his way along a line-up and deliver single-round headshots. Like Saddam’s henchmen had done to Hazo’s dad. There was no evidence of that here. Not one bullet hole. Even if shots had been delivered to the torso, once the flesh decomposed, the slugs would drop out from the bones.
Furthermore, the lack of clothing or personal effects strongly countermanded Crawford’s chemical-weapons hypothesis. Not to mention that not a trace of flesh remained on these bones. That pointed to an event long, long ago. Well before Kurds were victimized by Saddam and his Ba’ath Party goons.
There definitely was a story to be found in these bones. But what could it be?
The bot sonar hadn’t picked up any other exit tunnels branching out from this cave. Seeing how the bones were piled so high, however, Jason wondered if the sonar signal had been obstructed. Maybe there was something to be found
‘They’re only bones,’ he told himself. ‘Nothing but bones.’
Having witnessed plenty of battle zone carnage - from blown-off limbs to bullet-riddled and decapitated corpses - Jason wasn’t squeamish when it came to blood and gore. But bones evoked a different, unsettling feeling.
To Jason, naked bones underscored the impersonal, undiscriminating finality of death - the living being stripped of flesh to its crude frame. Like a vandalized car stripped down to its chassis and left sitting atop cinderblocks.
The ancients revered bones as a vessel for resurrection or reincarnation. As such, they built pyramids and lavish tombs and even mummified themselves to preserve the body’s sacred framework. This place, however, reflected a much deeper reality: death was cruel. Bones were nothing but remnants of a fleeting physical life. That’s what Jason had to believe. Because for the sorriest souls, like his brother Matthew, who’d been incinerated by ignited jet fuel in the World Trade Center on a crystal-clear September morning, nothing physical remained. Jason needed to believe that, in the end, bones didn’t determine one’s ultimate salvation.
Cringing, Jason placed his free hand on a knobby femur to get a feel for it. ‘Not so bad,’ he tried to convince himself. ‘Just like wood.’
Groaning, he tossed the light up on to the pile. Then he threw himself up on to the bones and began clambering his way to the top, using the skulls as steps.
‘Sorry, fellas …’
Halfway to the top, the pile partially collapsed under his weight as hollow rib cages buried deep beneath him folded inward with a series of brittle snaps. As if he had just cracked ice on a pond, he spread his weight flat. Once the bones settled again, he cautiously continued his ascent. Near the top there was more cracking and popping. A dust cloud of decomposed flesh wafted into his nose and mouth. ‘Aah!’ He spat out the dust, but a foul taste lingered on his tongue. That’s truly nasty, he thought.
He held the flashlight high and aimed the light into the shadowy gap behind the bone pile. Moving the light along the wall’s arc, he was able to scan about a third of the cave’s circumference. For good measure, he checked the ceiling too. Definitely no holes or openings.
He slid down the pile, sending a pair of skulls clattering across the ground. Then he continued slowly along the circle, shining the light on the skeletons. At the circle’s midpoint, he grappled to the top of the pile again and checked the rear wall and ceiling. Nothing.
Again he slid to the floor, continued along the pile. Three-quarters of the way around the circle he climbed the pile for a final inspection.
‘Okay. No way out,’ he muttered.
As he came to the end of the circle, he noticed something peculiar: dozens of jawbones had been neatly stacked in a separate pile. Upon closer examination, he discovered that none of them had teeth.
That’s odd, he mused.
Either these specimens were extreme examples of bad oral hygiene, or someone had extracted the teeth. But why would someone take them?
Then something on the ground glinted in the light. Jason bent down for a better look and at the foot of the pile saw a sharp silver edge covered in heavy dust. When he swept some of the dust away with his finger, he found something that was definitely
He picked up the object and held it under the light. It was a tool that resembled a hi-tech surgical instrument. Something a dentist might use to—
‘Extract teeth.’
Had to have been left behind by one of the scientists brought in for the 2003 excavation. He pocketed the plier-like forceps.
There was one item left, and Jason remembered the bot had spotted it to the right of the exit. Shining the flashlight waist-high, Jason ran the light along the curve of the wall until he found the spot that had clearly been smoothed by tools for a very obvious purpose: to prepare the surface for etching. And the image etched into stone made his jaw drop open.
45
LAS VEGAS
As the Cessna’s engines whined down for final descent into McCarran International Airport, Thomas Flaherty’s BlackBerry chimed. He checked the display. ‘It’s from Jason,’ he told Brooke Thompson. When he brought up the text message, he noted a handful of icons for picture attachments. ‘Says: “Al-Zahrani in custody. Have Brooke review pix from inside cave. Is this Lilith?”’
Brooke sat bolt upright, not sure what to be most excited about. ‘Wait. Is he saying that Al-Zahrani has been captured? Fahim Al-Zahrani?’
Realizing he just slipped up big-time, Flaherty’s eyes went wide. Oops. ‘Yeah. About that …’ He cast his eyes to the BlackBerry, thinking how he could change the subject.
‘Go on … you can tell me,’ Brooke said. ‘You know I’m really good at keeping secrets.’
He glanced up at her. ‘I suppose.’
Flaherty briefly explained how Jason’s team had been tracking Al-Qaeda operatives for the past few months leading up to the ambush that forced Al-Zahrani and his surviving posse to take cover in the mountain.
‘Wow. That is
Flaherty tried to wrap his brain around it too. ‘It’s ten million dollars huge,’ he murmured.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ He shook his head. ‘Wow. I just hope he’s okay.’
‘Al-Zahrani?’
‘No … Jason. See, Al-Zahrani is Bin Laden’s new right-hand man. And, of course, Bin Laden was responsible
