Crane stared back in surprise. "Me?"

"I'm very sorry, Peter. I never wanted to burden you with this knowledge-or this responsibility. I'd hoped the medical problem would be solved quickly and you could return to the surface, still believing we'd found Atlantis. But with the discovery of this eyewitness account, and given Spartan's increasingly aggressive behavior…well, you're the only option I have left."

"But why me? You're taking a huge risk just by telling me all this."

Asher smiled wearily. "I did my homework, remember? My people are scientists. They're too intimidated by men like Korolis to ever help me. But you: you're not only qualified to treat undersea ailments, you also served on an intelligence-gathering submarine. And I'm afraid that's just what this might soon become: an intelligence mission. And maybe more."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that every day, they're getting closer to the Moho. I can't wait any longer. One way or another, we have to know what's down there-before Spartan's digging machines get to it."

"What makes you sure I'll fall in on your side? I'm ex-military, as you point out. I might agree with Admiral Spartan."

Asher shook his head. "Not you. Now, listen-don't repeat a word of this to anybody." He hesitated. "Maybe none of this will be necessary. Maybe our analysts will finish decrypting those markers tomorrow, or the next day, and all I've said will become moot." He nodded at the man standing beside the evidence locker, who throughout the conversation hadn't said a single word. "This is John Marris. He's my own cryptanalyst, and he's working night and day on the problem. Now, what I want you to do-"

At that moment, a sharp rap sounded on the door. It was repeated again, and then again.

Crane looked at Asher. The chief scientist had frozen in place beside the chair, his lined face suddenly pale. He gave his head a violent shake.

Another rap, louder, more insistent. "Dr. Crane!" boomed a gravelly voice from the corridor.

Crane turned toward the door.

"Wait!" Asher said in a low, urgent voice.

But at that moment the door opened. And Admiral Spartan stood silhouetted in the light of the corridor, a red all-access passcard in his hand, flanked by marines with M1 carbines in their hands.

21

Spartan looked from Crane to Asher and back again, his expression unreadable. Then he took a step into the room.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asked.

The room fell uncomfortably silent. Crane glanced at Asher, who had the stunned look of a deer caught in a pair of headlights.

When there was no answer, Admiral Spartan turned to the marines. "Take him outside," he said, pointing at Crane.

One of the marines beckoned Crane forward with his rifle barrel. Crane swallowed painfully. The wonder of the last several minutes had evaporated, replaced by a painful sense of vulnerability.

He stepped into the hall with a sinking feeling. Spartan closed and locked the door behind him.

Crane waited in the narrow passageway, the marines standing silently on either side. His mouth was dry, and his heart raced uncomfortably in his chest. Sounds of raised voices began to filter through the door; he listened intently but could not make out the words. What is happening? He wasn't sure who to feel more worried about: himself or the old man in his room.

Five dreadful minutes passed. Then the door opened and Spartan emerged. He glared at Crane. "Come with me, Doctor," he said.

"Where are we going?"

"You will find it easier to just follow orders" was the clipped response.

Crane's eyes strayed back to the rifles in the hands of the marines. Clearly, he had no recourse but to obey. He marched down the corridor behind Spartan, the marines swinging into place behind him. A few passing technicians stopped to stare at their little parade. "Where-?" Crane began again, then stopped himself. Anything he said now would just dig the hole even deeper. Far better to say nothing, nothing at all…until he had to.

But the silent questions remained. How much does Spartan know? What did Asher tell him? They'd no doubt looked guilty as hell: three conspirators, meeting in secret…

This was, at heart, a military operation. He'd signed an awful lot of agreements up on the oil platform: God only knew what kind of personal rights he'd waived. It occured to him, with an unpleasant chill, that even if Spartan didn't know everything he no doubt had the means, the techniques-and, most likely, the right-to find out whatever he wanted.

They stopped before an elevator. The guards took up positions on either side while Spartan pressed the down button. Within moments the doors whisked open; Spartan stepped in, waited for the guards to usher Crane inside, then pressed the button for deck 7-the lowest non-classified level on the Facility.

What was it Asher had just told him? Spartan may soon take full command of the operation, with Korolis as his enforcer. Crane struggled to regulate his breathing, appear calm.

The elevator drifted to a stop and the doors rolled back onto deck 7. Spartan stepped out and led the way to an unlabeled door. He opened it with his red passcard while the marines once again took up positions on either side.

The room beyond was small and bare, the only furniture a long table with two chairs set along the near side. Behind the chairs were two huge, free-standing lights, their bulbs backed by metal reflectors. They were both aimed at a spot on the far wall-a spot that was approximately head level. Seeing these lights, Crane felt his heart begin to race even faster. His worst fears were confirmed.

"Walk over to the far wall, Dr. Crane," Spartan said in an expressionless voice.

Crane walked slowly to the wall.

"Turn around, please."

Crane did as ordered.

There was a sudden, metallic snap as both lights burst into brilliance, almost physically pinning him against the wall with their candlepower. He squinted and instinctively raised his hand to his eyes.

"Stand still, Dr. Crane," came the voice of Spartan, invisible behind the wall of white light.

Crane's mind began to work frantically. Stay calm, he told himself. Stay calm. What did he have to worry about? He was a member of the medical staff. He was supposed to be here. It wasn't like he was a spy or anything…

But then he remembered the deadly serious security at the Barrier, the fear he'd just seen on Asher's face.

From behind the wall of light came a single click. There was a moment of stasis. And then, one after the other, the spotlights went out.

"Have a seat, Doctor," said Spartan. He was seated at the table now, and a folder Crane had not noticed before was open in front of him.

Warily, heart still hammering, Crane took the empty seat. Spartan put his hand on the folder and pushed it toward him. It contained a single sheet of paper with about four paragraphs of text beneath a Department of Defense letterhead.

"Sign at the bottom, please," Spartan said. And he placed a gold pen carefully on the table.

"I already signed everything when I was topside," Crane said.

Spartan shook his head. "You didn't sign this."

"May I read it first?"

"I wouldn't suggest it. You'll just frighten yourself needlessly."

Crane picked up the pen, reached for the paper, hesitated. A little distantly, he wondered if he was signing an admission of guilt pro res before he'd even confessed to harboring secret knowledge. He realized it made little difference. Taking a deep breath, he signed the sheet and pushed it back to Spartan.

The admiral closed the folder and squared it sharply on the table. Just at that moment, a knock sounded on the door.