Dicken pulled open the folded letter accompanying the photo.

Dicken examined the photograph again. Less than no evidence. Will-o’-the-wisps.

Death rides in on a pale horse, slicing babies right and left, he thought. And I’m teamed up with crackpots and money-grubbing eccentrics.

52

Baltimore

Mitch called his apartment in Seattle while Kaye was taking a shower. He punched in his code and retrieved his messages. There were two calls from his father, a call from a man who did not identify himself, and then a call from Oliver Merton in London. Mitch wrote the number down as Kaye came out of the bathroom, loosely wrapped in a towel.

“You delight in provoking me,” he said. She dried her short hair with another towel, gazing at him with an appraising steadiness that was unnerving.

“Who was that?”

“Picking up my messages.”

“Old girlfriends?”

“My father, somebody I don’t know — a man — and Oliver Merton.”

Kaye lifted her eyebrow. “An old girlfriend might make me happier.”

“Mmm hmm. He wonders if I would a make a trip to Beres-ford, New York. He wants me to meet somebody interesting.”

“A Neandertal?”

“He says he can arrange for my expenses and accommodations.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Kaye said.

“I haven’t said I’ll go. I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s up to.”

“He knows quite a bit about my business,” Kaye said.

“You could come with me,” Mitch said with a squint that showed he knew this was too hopeful.

“I’m not done here, not by a long shot,” she said. “I’ll miss you if you go.”

“Why don’t I call him and ask what he’s got in his bag of tricks?”

“All right,” Kaye said. “Do that, and I’ll fix us two bowls of cereal.”

The call took a few seconds to go through. The low trill of an English phone was quickly interrupted by a breathless, “Fuck it’s late and I’m busy. Who’s this?”

“Mitch Rafelson.”

“Indeed. Pardon me while I wrap myself. I hate talking half-naked.”

“Half!” exclaimed a perturbed woman in the same room. “Tell them I’m soon to be your wife, and you are completely naked.”

“Shush.” Louder, phone half-muffled, Merton called to the woman, “She s getting her essentials and going into the next room.” Merton removed his hand and brought his mouth closer to the phone. “We need to talk in private, Mitchell.”

“I’m calling from Baltimore.”

“How far from Bethesda is that?”

“A ways.”

“NIH have you in the loop yet?”

“No,” Mitch said.

“Marge Cross? Ah…Kaye Lang?”

Mitch winced. Merton’s instincts were uncanny. “I’m a simple anthropologist, Oliver.”

“All right. The room’s empty. I can tell you. The situation in Innsbruck has hotted up considerably. It’s gone beyond fistfights. Now they don’t even like each other. There’s been a falling-out, and one of the principals wants to talk to you.”

“Who?”

“Actually, he says he’s been a sympathizer since the beginning. Says he called you to tell you they’d found the cave.”

Mitch remembered the call. “He didn’t leave a name.”

“Nor will he now. But he’s on the level, he’s important, and he wants to talk. I’d like to be there.”

“Sounds like a political move,” Mitch said.

“I’m sure he’d like to spread some rumors and see what the repercussions are. He wants to meet in New York, not Innsbruck or Vienna. At the home of an acquaintance in Beres-ford. Do you know anybody there?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Mitch replied.

“He hasn’t told me what he’s thinking yet, but…I can put a few links together and it all makes a very nice chain.”

“I’ll think about it and call you back in a few minutes.”

Merton did not sound happy about waiting even that length of time.

“Just a few minutes,” Mitch assured him. He hung up. Kaye emerged from the kitchen with two bowls of cereal and a pitcher of milk on a tray. She had put on a calf-length black robe tied with a red cord. The robe showed off her legs, and, when she bent over, neatly revealed a breast. “Rice Chex or Raisin Bran?”

“Chex, please.”

“Well?”

Mitch smiled. “May I share breakfast with you for a thousand years.”

Kaye looked both confused and pleased. She placed the tray on the coffee table and smoothed her robe over her hips, primping with a kind of awkward self-consciousness that Mitch found very endearing. “You know what I like to hear,” she said.

Mitch gently pulled her down to the couch beside him. “Merton says there’s a breakdown in Innsbruck, a schism. An important member of the team wants to talk to me. Merlon’s going to write a story about the mummies.”

“He’s interested in the same things we are,” Kaye said speculatively. “He thinks something important is happening. And he’s following every angle, from me to Innsbruck.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Mitch said.

“Is he intelligent?”

“Reasonably. Maybe very intelligent. I don’t know; I’ve only spent a few hours with him.”

“Then you should go. You should find out what he knows. Besides, it’s closer to Albany.”

“That’s true. Ordinarily, I’d pack my small bag and hop the next train.”

Kaye poured her milk. “But?”

“I don’t just love and run. I want to spend the next few weeks with you, uninterrupted. Never leave your side.” Mitch stretched his neck, rubbed it. Kaye reached out to help him rub. “That sounds clinging,” he said.

“I want you to cling,” she said. “I feel very possessive and very protective.”

“I can call Merton and tell him no.”

“But you won’t.” She kissed him thoroughly and bit at his lip. “I’m sure you’ll have some amazing tales to tell. I did a lot of thinking last night, and now I have a lot of very focused work to do. When it’s all done, I may have some amazing tales to tell you , Mitch.”

53

Washington, D.C.

Augustine jogged briskly along the Capitol mall, following the dirt jogging path beneath the cherry trees, now dropping the last of their blossoms. An agent in a dark blue suit followed at a steady lope, turning to run backward for a moment and scan the trail behind.

Dicken stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, waiting for Augustine to approach. He had driven in from Bethesda an hour earlier, braving rush-hour traffic, hating this clandestine nonsense with something approaching fury. Augustine stopped beside him and jogged in place, stretching his arms.

“Good morning, Christopher,” he said. “You should jog more often.”

“I like being fat,” Dicken said, his face coloring.

“Nobody likes being fat.”

“Well, in that case, I’m not fat,” Dicken said. “What are we today, Mark, secret agents? Informers?” He wondered why they had not yet assigned an agent to him. He concluded it was because he was not as yet a public figure.

“Goddamn damage control experts,” Augustine said. “A man named Mitchell Rafelson spent the night with dear Ms. Kaye Lang at her lovely condominium in Baltimore.”