“Right.”
The forklift died before reaching the mine’s entrance, forcing them to walk the last half mile, Cali helping Mercer because his knee still bothered him. Ludmilla was the only person waiting for them when they emerged from the stygian realm. She gave a little snort when she saw them but her bovine expression didn’t change.
“Great to see you too, Milly old girl,” Mercer said to get a reaction. He didn’t.
She accompanied them down to the remains of the helicopter. Sasha was sitting up against a tree stump; the pilot and the other scientist were dozing near the chopper.
“It looks like it went well,” Sasha said to greet them.
“Hit a little snag,” Cali said airily, “no big deal.”
“Where are Professor Ahmad and Devrin Egemen?”
“When the helicopter reported they were lifting off from Samara, they got in their vehicle and left.” Sasha handed Mercer a piece of paper. “He asked me to give you this.”
Mercer unfolded the note.
Dear Doctor,
I want to apologize for how I manipulated you and Miss Stowe into helping us. My Janissaries have defended the alembic for generations and if not for a conversation among lovers decades ago we would not have faced the crisis we have. It is almost contained now thanks in part to you. The rest is our responsibility. I pray you will heed my advice and return to your lives, satisfied with the knowledge you have contributed to a noble cause.
It was unsigned.
“What do you think?” Cali asked after she read it.
He crushed the piece of paper. “Without the stele there isn’t much we can do this side of digging up half of Egypt. The Russians will handle the plutonium and Popov too if I’m right about him.” He felt the heat of their kiss once again and looked into her eyes. “I guess we go back and resume our lives like he says.”
“Exactly like it was before?” she said teasingly.
He took her hand. “I foresee a change or two.”
Arlington, Virginia
By the time their connecting flight from Frankfurt touched down at Dulles Airport, thirty-six hectic hours had passed since Cali and Mercer were picked up at the mine by the Russian military. With no luggage except the bag of duty-free Jack Daniel’s Mercer had bought for his depleted bar, they were through Customs quickly. Ira had sent a government car to take them home. They’d agreed earlier they would drop Cali at her condo first. It had been a grueling couple of days and the promise of a budding relationship couldn’t overcome two exhausted, worn-out bodies.
Mercer saw her to her door, and together they checked out her cozy two-bedroom to ensure no one had been there in her absence. He felt like a teenager on a first date as they kissed under the porch light. It was their first since the mine. Without the bulky contamination suit, her long-limbed body was all bone and hard angles but fit perfectly in his arms. Their eyes were at almost the same level and neither closed them.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Cali asked.
“And the day after that,” Mercer promised.
“I have to report in to NEST in the morning, then I’m taking a couple of days off.”
“And I don’t have any contracts lined up for two weeks.”
“I’ll see you at noon.”
The twenty-minute drive to Mercer’s brownstone passed in a contented blur.
The lights were on when he opened the door and he heard a voice. He tensed momentarily before recognizing Harry White’s jackhammer laugh. He climbed the spiral stairs up to the bar, his knee feeling better but still noticeable. As he passed through the alcove library and the French doors he heard another voice and laughed aloud, calling, “Booker Sykes, don’t you get in the habit of drinking my booze too.”
Book and Harry were sitting at the bar with a couple of drinks and a nearly depleted bowl of pretzels. A baseball game playing on the big television held Drag’s rapt attention, like he was almost following the action.
Mercer slapped Booker on the shoulder. “I already know your trip was a bust. Sorry about that. Are you and your men okay? When’d you get back?”
“Couple hours ago,” Sykes said. “And there isn’t anything wrong with us that some ice and a chiropractor can’t fix. What the hell do you mean bust?”
“I talked to the guy who blew up the stele.”
“Shit, man, you are a pessimist.” He waved his beer bottle. “Check it out.”
Mercer turned to see what he was talking about. On the floor behind one of the couches were three large backpacks. Mercer flipped open the biggest one. Inside was a bunch of gray stones. So exhausted by the past days, he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. He lifted one of the rocks from the bag. It was a lump of unremarkable granite about the size of a blackboard eraser. One side of it had been poorly smoothed. He looked closer at the tool marks. His eyes widened. He’d never be able to decipher it without expert help but he clearly recognized an Egyptian cartouche and hieroglyphic writing.
“It wasn’t blown up,” Booker explained. “Looks like they broke it apart with hammers or rifle butts. Rivers, Cieplicki, and I humped out every piece bigger than a marble.”
Mercer was grinning like an idiot. “Booker, you have my permission to drink as much of my booze as you want.” He tried to lift the bag. “Jesus, this thing must weigh a hundred pounds.”
“The lightest was a hundred and seventy-five according to the airline, which charged an extra four hundred bucks for the weight. That’s the reason I look like a question mark when I stand up.”
Mercer reached into the bag for another smaller piece, his smile fading when he realized he was actually holding two chunks of a seven-foot-long, six-hundred-pound, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. It would take months to put the stele back together, if it was possible at all.
“Hey, Mercer, check out behind the bar,” Harry said from his stool.
“Huh?” Mercer grunted distractedly.
He carefully set the pieces of stone back in the knapsack and stepped behind the mahogany-topped bar. Nothing seemed out of place. “What is it?”
“Nothing. Just wanted you to make me another drink.”
“Bastard.” Mercer scowled as he freshened Harry’s Jack and ginger and made a gimlet for himself. “How the hell are we going to put the stele back together?”
“That thing is in more pieces than Humpty Dumpty,” Harry commented. “You guys ever wonder what made them think the king’s horses could fix him?”
“No,” Booker and Mercer said in unison.
“Seriously,” Harry went on, “there must be five or six hundred pieces, most of them are freakin’ tiny, and the ones I examined at all look pretty much the same.”
Mercer said, “I’ll call Ira in the morning; he might have an idea who can reassemble it. There must be some forensic guys out there who have experience reconstructing bones. Maybe they can do something.” He didn’t sound optimistic.
“Should we tell him?” Booker asked Harry.
“He called me a bastard. I say let him twist awhile longer.”
“Tell me what?”
Booker kept looking to Harry, until the octogenarian threw up his arms. “I give up. Go ahead and tell him, only you’re no fun.”
“I spoke with Admiral Lasko as soon as we landed. We’ve got a meeting at the Goddard Space Flight Center over in Greenbelt, Maryland, tomorrow morning at nine.”
“What’s there?”
