“It’s all crap,” Mark spat. “Chairman, if you saw some of the websites where we found this stuff you’d know there’s nothing to it. It’s a myth like the Loch Ness Monster, or Bigfoot or the Lost Dutchman Mine.”

“There was a kernel of truth behind the myth of Noah’s Ark, if you recall from our little adventure a few months ago.” The Chairman went quiet for a moment. “We know for a fact from Lafayette that in his later years Al-Jama saw there was hope of peace between Christians and Muslims. This has only recently come to light, right? It isn’t something conspiracy buffs are privy to. Here’s a little speculation. What if the first version of the story’s right, about the jewel being an inscribed ruby, and Al-Jama read Muhammad’s last words and that led to his change of heart. It does lend a little credence, yes?”

“Possibly. But come on. What are the chances it ends up in Al-Jama’s possession?”

“Why not? He was a noted Imam from a family with a long history of piracy. Even if one of his ancestors wasn’t part of the attack on the Templar ship, it’s still possible the jewel was given to them as a tribute.”

“Gentlemen, let’s get back on course,” Max suggested. “At this stage in the game, it doesn’t really matter what the jewel is, or even where it is. Our focus should be on saving the Secretary and stopping Al-Jama’s attack.”

“Max, you said something about how the Libyans are claiming our old buddy at the harbor, Tariq Assad, is Al-Jama.”

“Obviously, a smoke screen, if we’re right.”

“Has Eddie reported anything that makes you think Assad’s involved with Al-Jama’s faction?”

“No, but this morning they noted Assad’s house and his office are surrounded by covert agents. The Libyans are making good on their promise to nab him.”

“And when the dust settles, they’ll have their scapegoat,” Eric remarked. “They’ll put on a quick show trial and execute him for the attack.”

“The Libyans have to be targeting him for a reason. There must be something to this guy, right? Max, get on the horn and tell Eddie to pick up Assad. We need to question him.”

Cabrillo studied Mark Murphy for a moment. Murph’s jaw was blurred with stubble, and he slouched in his chair as if he were melted into it, but his eyes were still bright. In the past few months, after a lot of ribbing from the crew, he had embarked on the first exercise program of his life. He’d been through a lot in the past forty-eight hours, yet Juan suspected he was ready for more. “You up for another op?”

“I still want that shower first, but yeah.”

“I want you and Eric over the border into Tunisia to find Al-Jama’s tomb.” Cabrillo didn’t like losing his best helmsman at a time like this, but Murph and Stone worked together on such a deep, intuitive level that he felt it necessary to send both.

“Better take along a couple of gundogs,” Max suggested. “Don’t forget the tangos kidnapped the fourth member of Alana Shepard’s team.”

“Bumford,” Mark said. “Emile Bumford. Linda and Linc say he’s a tool.”

“Just so you know what you’re up against,” Hanley continued, “the other archaeologists report that there were at least a dozen terrorists who snatched him.”

“Gomez can chopper you over and be back in a couple of hours.”

“We still have fuel left in the cache we set up in the desert when we first talked to Bumford.”

“Good. I want you guys in the air in two hours. For now, all I want you to do is find the tomb. If they’ve beaten you there, stick close and watch. No matter what, don’t engage them. Greg Chaffee’s volunteered to fully debrief the prisoners, but from what I’ve been able to gather from them so far Al-Jama wants that tomb as badly as we do. His entire operation out in the desert was an attempt to find it. Be ready for anything.”

“Ready is my middle name.”

“Herbert’s your middle name,” Eric teased.

“It’s better than Boniface.”

Cabrillo’s phone rang. It was the duty officer in the op center. “Chairman, I thought you’d want to know, radar picked up a low-flying aircraft parallel to the coast near the approximate position of the terrorist training camp.”

“Could you track it?”

“Not really. It popped up only for a second and then vanished again. My guess is it’s flying at wave-top height.”

“Did you get its speed or bearing?”

“Nothing. Just the blip, and then it was gone.”

“Okay. Thanks.” He set the Bakelite handset back on its cradle. “Al-Jama’s men are bugging out.”

Max glanced at his watch. “Didn’t take them long.”

“I’d like to think our little fracas pushed their deadline,” Juan said, “but I doubt that’s the case.” He went quiet for a moment. “What the hell were they doing near the coast?”

“Hmm?”

“The chopper. Why risk getting close to the coast where they could be spotted? Eric’s right. They should stick to the empty desert. Max, I want you to do a search on Libya’s naval forces. I want to know where every ship capable of landing a helicopter is right now.”

Hanley asked, “What about you?”

“I’m going to call Langston and convince him to stick to my script. Then I want Doc Huxley to look at where I gouged out my subdermal transmitter and give me another dose of local. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

EDDIE SENG GENTLY CLOSED HIS CELL PHONE AND THOUGHT he’d contained a sigh, but from across the sweltering hotel room Hali Kasim asked, “What’s up?”

Max had already briefed the pair about what had been happening, so the call had lasted for less than five seconds, but from the look on Seng’s face the news couldn’t be good.

“The Chairman wants us to grab Tariq Assad.”

“When? Tonight?”

“Now.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t ask.”

Because the dingy room they rented from the Chinese gang lacked air-conditioning or even running water, both men were stripped down to their boxer shorts. Both their bodies ran with sweat, although Hali seemed to be suffering the worst. His chest and upper shoulders were a matted pelt of hair, a legacy of his Lebanese heritage.

Eddie had been leaning against one of the single bed’s headboards when his cell had chimed. He stood and started getting on his clothes. He shook out the cockroaches before legging into his pants. A trickle of aromatic steam from the restaurant below the room rose from a seam in the old wooden floors.

“Are we really doing this?” Hali asked, a fresh wash of perspiration slicking his face.

“Juan says that Assad’s the key, so, yeah, we’re doing this.”

“The key? Assad’s the key? The guy’s nothing more than a two-bit, two-timing corrupt official.”

Seng looked across at the Corporation’s communications specialist. “All the more reason to wonder why they’ve staked out his house, and his office at the dock. Max said yesterday that their government thinks he’s tied in with Al-Jama’s crew, even though that makes no sense. Assad’s lifestyle is too conspicuous for him to be a terrorist. Real tangos don’t carry on a half dozen romantic liaisons and draw potential police interest by taking bribes.”

Hali thought for a moment. “Okay, I’ll buy that. So if he’s not with Al-Jama, why do the Libyans want him so badly?”

“For the same reason Juan does. He knows something about this whole mess, only no one knows what.”

Kasim was on his feet, securing a compact Glock 19 to an ankle holster before slipping on his pants. “This is why I stay on the ship. There my job is easy. Radio call comes in, I answer it. Someone wants to talk to a guy on the other side of the world, I make it happen. Shore Operations need encrypted phones that look like cigarette packs, I can get ’em. Skulking around in broad daylight trying to abduct a man wanted by the Libyan secret police isn’t exactly my cup of tea.”

Putting on the accent of an elderly Chinese sage, Eddie said, “Broaden your appetites, grasshopper, and the world will feed your soul.”