Braille. Obviously a recent surgery. But his wrist was calloused and long healed. Still, he could almost sense his missing fingers. Felt them curl into a phantom fist of frustration.

The taller boy stepped back from the bed. Come, he said in English.

From the clandestine nature of his release and furtive actions of his liberators, he sensed some amount of danger. Dressed in a thin hospital gown, he rolled his feet to the cold tiled floor. The room tilted with the motion.

Whoa

A small groan of nausea escaped him.

Hurry, the taller boy urged.

Wait, he said, gulping air to settle his stomach. Tell me what is going on.

No time. The tall boy stepped away. He was gangly, all limbs. He attempted to sound authoritative, but the cracking in his voice betrayed both his youth and his terror. He touched his chest, introducing himself. Menia zavut Konstantin.

You must come. Before it is too late.

But I I don't

Da. You are confused. For now, know your zavut is Monk Kokkalis.

Making a half-scoffing noise, he shook his head. Monk Kokkalis. The name meant nothing to him. As he attempted to voice his disagreement, to correct the mistake, he realized he had no ammunition, only a blank where his name normally resided. His heart clutched into a strained knot. Panic narrowed his vision. How could that be? He fingered the sutures again. Had he taken a blow to the head? A concussion? He sought for any memory beyond waking up here in this room, but there was nothing, a wasteland.

What had happened?

He stared again at the EKG monitor still connected to his chest by taped lead wires. And over in the corner stood a blood pressure monitor and an I. V. pole.

So if he could name what lay around him, why couldn't he remember his own name?

He searched for a past, something to anchor him. But beyond waking up here in this dark room, he had no memory.

The smaller of the two boys seemed to sense his growing distress. The child stepped forward, his blue eyes catching the flash of the penlight. Monk if that was really his name sensed the boy knew more about him than he did himself.

Proving this, the child seemed to read his heart and spoke the only words that would stir him from the bed.

The boy held up a small hand toward him, his fingers splayed, punctuating his need. Save us.

5

September 5, 9:30 P. M.

Washington, D. C.

Chernobyl? Elizabeth asked. What was my father doing in Russia?

She stared across the coffee table at the two other men. She was seated in an armchair with her back to a picture window that overlooked the woods of Rock

Creek Park. They had been driven to this location after escaping the museum.

Gray had used the words safe house, which had done little to make her feel safe.

It was like something out of a spy novel. But the charm of the house a two-story craftsman built of clinker brick and paneled in burnished tiger oak helped calm her.

Somewhat.

She had washed up upon arriving, taking several minutes to scrub her hands and splash water on her face. But her hair still smelled of smoke, and her fingernails were still stained with paint. Afterward, she had sat for five minutes on the commode with her face in her palms, trying to make sense of the last few hours. She hadn't known she was crying until discovering her hands were damp. It was all too much. She still hadn't had a chance to process the death of her father. Though she didn't doubt the truth of it, she had not come to accept the reality.

Not until she had some answers.

It was those questions that finally drew her out of the bathroom.

She eyed the newcomer across a table set with coffee. The man was introduced as

Gray's boss, Director Painter Crowe. She studied him. His features were angular, his complexion tanned. As an anthropologist, she read the Native American heritage in the set of his eyes despite their glacial blue hue. His dark hair ran with a small streak of white over one ear, like a heron feather tucked there.

Gray shared the sofa with him, crouched and sifting through a stack of papers on the table.

Before anyone could answer her question, Kowalski returned from the kitchen in his stocking feet. His freshly polished shoes rested on the cold hearth. Found some Ritz crackers and something that looked like cheese. Not sure. But they had salami.

He leaned to place the platter in front of Elizabeth.

Thank you, Joe, she said, grateful for the simple and real gesture amid all the mystery.

The big man blushed a bit around the ears. No problem, he grumbled as he straightened. He pointed to the platter, seemed to forget what he was going to say then with a shake of his head, retired to inspect his shoes again.

Painter sat up straighter, drawing back Elizabeth's attention. As to Chernobyl, we don't know why your father went there. In fact, we ran his passport. There's no record of him visiting Russia, or for that matter, ever reentering the United

States. We can only assume he was traveling with a false passport. The last record we have of his travels was from five months ago. He flew to India. That's the last we know about his whereabouts.

Elizabeth nodded. He travels there often. At least twice a year.

Gray shifted straighter. To India. Why?

For a research grant. As a neurologist, he was studying the biological basis for instinct. He worked with a professor of psychology at the University of

Mumbai.

Gray glanced to his boss.

I'll look into it, Painter said. But I had already heard of your father's interest in instinct and intuition. In fact, it was the basis for his involvement with the Jasons.

This last was directed at Gray, but Elizabeth stiffened at the mention of the organization. She could not hide her distaste. So you know about them the

Jasons.

Painter glanced to Gray, then back to her. Yes, we know your father was working for them.

Working? More like obsessed with them.

What do you mean?

Elizabeth explained how working with the military grew into an all-consuming passion with her father. Each summer, he'd disappear for months at a time, sometimes longer. The rest of his year was devoted to his responsibilities as a professor at M. I. T. As a result, he was seldom home. It strained relations between her parents. Accusations grew into fights. Her mother came to believe her father was having an affair.

The tension at home only drove her father farther away. A rocky marriage became a ruin. Her mother, already a borderline alcoholic, tipped over the edge. When

Elizabeth was sixteen, her mother got drunk and crashed the family's SUV into the Charles River. It was never determined whether it was an accident or a suicide.

But Elizabeth knew who deserved the brunt of the blame.

From that day forward, she seldom spoke to her father. Each retreated into their own world. Now he was gone, too. Forever. Despite her loss, she could not discount a burning seed of anger toward him. Even his strange death left so much unanswered.

Do you think his involvement with the Jasons had anything to do with his death? she finally asked.

Painter shook his head. It's hard to say. We're still early in the investigation. But I was able to discover which classified military project was assigned to your father. It was called Project

Stargate, Elizabeth finished for him. She took some satisfaction from the man's startled expression.

Kowalski sat up straighter by the fireplace. Hey, I saw a movie about that had aliens and stuff, right?

Not that Stargate, Joe, she answered. And don't worry, Mr. Crowe. My father didn't breech his top secret clearance. I'd heard my father mention the project by name a couple of times. Then a decade later, I read the declassified reports from the CIA, released through the Freedom of Information Act.